Mari’s first impression of Los Angeles wasn’t one of awe. Far from it. From her perspective, it was a dull brown city much like San Bernardino, only bigger and full of orange groves. Just a little bit bigger, though. It was mostly crops and cows and cactus, like everything else in the vicinity.
“Doesn’t look like much so far, does it?”
She turned to see if Tony was laughing at her, or if he’d been making an honest statement of fact. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. “No, it sure doesn’t.”
After thinking for another few seconds, she decided to say something else. Maybe he’d laugh at her. Maybe he wouldn’t. Ever since he’d made an overture of detente back there on the desert, they hadn’t been sniping at each other nearly as much as before. Mari decided an experiment was worth the effort. “Um, I’d sort of been hoping for something more grand.”
He smiled, but he didn’t laugh. “If you want grand, you’re going to have to head east. L.A.’s pretty much a desert town now. If it’s ever going to grow up to be a big city, it’ll have to find a good source of water somewhere.”
She surveyed the dusty town and nodded in agreement. “You’re probably right. I guess water’s the most important thing, if a city expects to prosper.”
Still, Mari could see a glimmer of prosperity here and there. One or two big houses with elegant grounds hove into view and impressed the heck out of her. She wouldn’t mind living in a house like one of those. They were castles compared to her tiny shack.
As they drove deeper into the city itself, she noticed a good deal of what she recognized as Spanish influence prevailing. Many of the buildings were low white structures and had tile roofs. Soon they were driving alongside a sprawling plaza with a huge church at one end.
“Want to stop and look around? This is a good place to get something to eat, too, if you like Mexican food.”
“I’d like to look around, but I don’t know if I like Mexican food or not. I’m used to my own cooking.”
She glanced at him sharply when he chuckled, but he didn’t look disparaging, so she decided not to get indignant. He turned the automobile down a brick-paved road lined with stalls where everything from hats and belts to turkeys and chickens to apples and oranges was being sold. Mari asked curiously, “Is this market day?” Thursday was market day in Mojave Wells, but it wasn’t nearly as elaborate as this. On Thursdays a few outlying farmers brought their vegetables and chickens to town. This looked sort of permanent.
“I think every day’s market day here. This will give you a chance to see if you like the cooking in these parts. They use a lot of beans and rice and chilies. I find it tasty. Not at all like what we’re used to on the East Coast.”
The only thing Mari could think of that she knew for certain came from back east was a kind of shellfish called a lobster. She’d heard folks rave about lobsters, but she didn’t imagine she’d ever get a bite of one. “I expect that’s so. I suppose different parts of the country use whatever grows there.”
“Right.”
“And what’s easy to cook.” She cleared her throat and wished she’d stop feeling like such a hick. “We use lots of beans in Mojave, too. It’s because they keep when they’re dried, and it’s hard to keep stuff cold there. Dried beans don’t spoil.”
He parked the automobile under a shady peppertree—Mari knew it was a peppertree, because she’d seen them in San Bernardino—and its engine rattled to a stop. “That makes sense. It must be hard to keep things like milk and eggs fresh in that insufferable heat.”
“It is for me,” she admitted. Of course, if she had a few extra dollars, she might be able to afford a better place to live, with electricity and fans and electrical iceboxes and things like that.
There she went again. She hated when she started wishful thinking, because it led to nothing but unhappiness, and she couldn’t afford that any more than she could afford electricity. To distract herself, she surveyed the busy street and noticed large flowered pots with huge bouquets of bright flowers. The flowers didn’t look real to her, but they were lovely. “Gee, it’s pretty here.”
“I like it, too.”
There were lots of people in Los Angeles, at least in this part of it. Most of them were strolling or lounging, a sensible concession to the heat, which, while nowhere near as extreme as in Mojave Wells, was still intense. Women in white cotton dresses and men in white cotton shirts and pants spoke Spanish to each other. Many of them eyed Tony’s motorcar with interest. A few children, barefoot and also clad in white cotton, walked over and stood several yards away, peering at the newfangled contraption as if they’d like to come nearer but didn’t dare. Mari smiled at them.
Tony noticed her smiling, opened his mouth to ask her what was funny, understood the small gesture she made with her hand, and turned to behold the children. He smiled, too, and Mari’s heart flipped over.
He gestured for the children to come closer. After exchanging looks of trepidation, they did so, grinning shyly. Mari clasped her hands and watched, intrigued to see Tony interact with children with whom he had nothing whatever in common.
“Want to see the car?” he asked softly.
The children conversed in Spanish for a moment, then one little boy, bolder than his mates, stepped forward, removing a huge straw hat and bowing. “Si, senor. The car.” His accent was thick as molasses. Mari was charmed
Her state of charm transformed into one of astonishment when Tony opened the front door of the motorcar and said, “Es un Pierce Arrow Grande. Quieren, um, ver a dentro?”
The little boy nodded. He, too, appeared surprised that Tony could speak his language, if only a little bit, and he smiled in appreciation. With a gesture, he called his friends over.
Mari moved closer to Tony. “I didn’t know you could speak Spanish.”
Smiling and watching the children peer with fascination inside his amazing machine, Tony shrugged. “I don’t know it very well, but I’m good with languages. I never took Spanish in school, but it’s hard to avoid it here in California.” He squinted down at her. “At least, I haven’t been able to avoid it.”
She flushed. “We don’t have so many Spanish folks in Mojave, I guess.”
“Probably not. Los Angeles was originally settled by the Spanish. I reckon that’s why so many still live here.”
“Probably.”
The small flock of children investigated Tony’s car with care and respect. It didn’t look to Mari as if any of them dared do more than touch the plush leather of the seats, and none of them tried to climb inside or sit on a fender. They were awfully cute.
After a few minutes, Tony said something to the boy who’d assumed the position of leader of the group, and the boy nodded eagerly. Reaching into his pocket, Tony pulled out some coins and handed them over to the boy, who accepted them with thanks.
Taking Mari’s arm, Tony said, “There. I asked them to watch the machine while we stroll around for a little while and get some lunch. I’m hungry.”
How enterprising of him to enlist the natives in his cause. Although she wasn’t sure it was a good thing, Mari’s respect for Tony’s ability to deal with people outside his rich eastern set rose a few points. She also wondered why he hadn’t been so tactful with her when they’d first met.
Then again, she’d been in a relatively sour mood that day herself. Maybe he’d taken his cue from her. It wasn’t a possibility that sat well with her, and she shelved it for the nonce. Much better to enjoy the day, his company, and these fascinating new surroundings than dwell on her possible shortcomings.
“This is Olvera Street,” Tony said. “I understand it’s the oldest street in Los Angeles. That church is pretty old, too, I hear. All the Spanish settlements were built around churches, or so I’ve been told. When I took the train out here, it stopped in Santa Fe, in the New Mexico Territory, and it’s the same there. All activities centered around the church and the plaza.”
“My goodness.” A few of the women she spotted wore gaily colored skirts. Pretty painted pottery stood beside doors, and Mari saw that her impression of the flowers had been correct. They seemed to be made out of crepe paper. They were sure pretty, and she considered making some to enliven her own dismal corner of the world. Crepe paper was cheap, and she could find sticks to tack the flowers onto, probably. Her mood edged up.
They walked past a stall where a woman sold striped capes and cunningly painted statues of saints. Mari wished that her father was alive, and that she had some money. He’d have loved to have one of those cape things
The thought both saddened and gladdened her. She liked thinking of her father as a dear man who adored bright colors and funny jokes. It was much preferable to thinking of him as a lousy businessman with a single-minded mania for the Marigold Mine. She paused and fingered a striped cape. “It feels like heavy cotton,” she murmured.
“Probably is.” Tony, smiling at the woman behind the stall’s counter, lifted one of them down for Mari to inspect more closely. “See? I imagine they use wool and cotton both. Wool for the winter, and cotton for summertime. I think they’re called serapes.”
He glanced an inquiry at the stall’s proprietress, who nodded and smiled, showing a glimmer of gold-filled teeth.
“Serapes? I’ve heard that word.”
“That old miner we saw by the side of the road was wearing one.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now.” She was surprised Tony did, though. She guessed she hadn’t given him enough credit. He really did pay attention to the rest of the world. She’d assumed, from their first few encounters that he sat on his throne in his ivory tower and scorned those of his fellows who weren’t as lucky as he was. Maybe she’d been a little hard on him.
“You ought to get one of these blouses, Mari.”
His words captured her attention with a jolt, and she turned to gape at him. He held out a pretty white cotton blouse with a white ruffle around the neck and decorated with colorful embroidered flowers. She looked from the blouse to him and knew she was blushing. Blast it.
She’d love to have that blouse. Mari, who’d never had any clothes to speak of except hand-me-down trousers and shirts from the church basement sale and the two dresses she’d inherited from her mother, had always tried not to want things. Wanting things only led to wishful thinking, which led to dissatisfaction, and she didn’t need it. She also didn’t need a pretty white blouse.
“I can’t use it,” she said, wishing she sounded more like she meant it. “I mean, what would I do with a white blouse in a mine?” She managed a laugh.
He shrugged “I don’t suppose you’d wear it in the mine. Here. Let’s see if it fits.”
Mari jumped several inches when he held the blouse up to her shoulders. She was mortally embarrassed but didn’t want to show it. The vendor was beaming at her, and Tony was smiling, and she couldn’t figure out what she was supposed to do.
Not that it mattered. She didn’t have money to spend on a blouse she didn’t need. Anyhow, what would she wear it with? She didn’t have a skirt that would go with it, and it would look silly with the battered old britches she wore.
“Then,” Tony said, as if he’d been reading her thoughts, “we’d have to get you one of those skirts.”
Oh, Lord, Mari hadn’t noticed the skirts. They were so pretty, all bright stripes and patterns. Greens and reds and yellows and blues. They no sooner met the eye than they cheered up the spirit.
With a sigh, she supposed she might as well not fight the wish to own such charming clothes. She couldn’t afford the blouse or the skirt, so she might just as well want both.
Which was pretty discouraging, actually.
“And you’d need a sash to tie everything together,” Tony went on, as if he didn’t know how much Mari yearned to possess the finery he was dangling so casually in front of her.
She wished he’d stop it. She felt like a bull being baited by somebody flashing a red bandanna in front its eyes. She wanted nice things. She wanted to be attractive, to wear pretty clothes, not to have to work hard for so pitifully little recompense.
But that wasn’t in the cards God had dealt her. Sometimes she wanted to have a sit-down, heart-to-heart chat with God and ask him why, but she knew that was sacrilegious thinking. God’s will was God’s will, and people had nothing to say about it.
Still didn’t seem fair.
Her mind was in such a fluster that she didn’t realize what Tony planned until he turned to the stall keeper and said, “We’ll take these.”
She returned to reality with a painful thump. “What?” Blast, she hadn’t meant to screech. She could tell neither Tony nor the woman had expected it of her when they both turned and stared at her, the woman with surprise, Tony with thinned lips that denoted to Mari, who’d come to know that expression, burgeoning anger.
“No need to holler, Mari. I’m paying.”
“That’s scandalous!” she hissed, becoming angry in her own right. What did this man think he was doing? She’d thought his intentions were honorable, even if he didn’t like her very much. “I’m not going to let you buy me clothes. Why, it’s unheard of!”
“Nonsense.” His voice was as crisp as burned toast. “If we’re going to be seeing the nightlife in Los Angeles, you’re not going dressed like that.” He cast a scornful glance at her mother’s ancient dress, and Mari’s embarrassment grew to monumental proportions.
“If,” she said in a voice of stone, “I have to sink to the level of allowing you to purchase my clothes, I’d prefer to skip Los Angeles’s nightlife, thank you very much.” She turned and stalked off several yards, primarily because she couldn’t bear to be so close to those pretty things and to know that in order to possess them she’d have to be at a man’s mercy. She could recall very few times in her life she’d been this humiliated. Damn Tony Ewing!
Tony watched her march away from him with narrowed eyes and a narrower mind. What was the matter with the chit? Did she think he was going to squire a woman who looked like a tramp around town?
The stall vendor murmured something to him in Spanish He whipped his head around and stared at her. “I beg your pardon? Er, como?”
“Se dije, usted le a sentimientos lastimas, es un bruto, y no merete una mujer con tanto espirito.”
He’d hurt her feelings? He’d acted like a brute? And he didn’t deserve a woman with Mari’s spirit? Tony’s gaze traveled from the shopkeeper, whose chin was tilted up in much the manner as Mari’s, to Mari, who had commenced fingering some crepe-paper flowers. She seemed to like those flowers. Tony experienced a mad impulse to buy out the flower supply on Olvera Street and lay them all at her feet.
Shoot, he hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. He guessed he should have phrased his reasoning more persuasively. He guessed he had been a little rough around the edges. And maybe in the middle as well.
It was only because he wasn’t accustomed to having to use subtlety when dealing with women. And he’d never had to deal with a woman of Mari’s stamp. Most of the females he’d known thus far had been grasping creatures who believed men owed them everything they wanted.
Of course, that meant they weren’t anything at all like Marigold Pottersby, whose pride was monumental, especially if one considered her circumstances. Or perhaps she was so damned proud because of her circumstances.
“Dammit,” he grumbled. “Here. Wrap ‘em up.” He tossed the woman behind the counter several dollars without counting them and hurried off to unruffle Mari’s feathers. She heard him coming, turned, armed herself with a bunch of flowers, and glared daggers at him.
“Listen, Mari,” he blurted out before he’d reached her. “I didn’t mean what I said back there.”
She said, “Ha,” and hugged the flowers closer to her bosom.
It occurred to Tony that if he played his cards right, she might eventually hold him close to her bosom. He told himself not to be stupid. Theirs was a business relationship and nothing more.
If he felt a tiny stirring of lust in his loins for the girl, it was only because he was a man and she was a goddess. That is to say— Good God, Mari was about as far from being a goddess as she was from being a plutocrat. What he’d meant was that he was a man and she was an attractive woman. That’s it. That’s all. End of story.
“Honest,” he went on. “I mean it. It was a lousy thing to say, and I’m sorry. But I really think you ought to allow Peerless to buy you something to wear besides—” Dammit, he’d gone and done it again: talked himself into a hole. He heaved a gusty sigh. “I mean, look at it this way,” he continued. “Don’t you think you owe it to Peerless to look your best?”
“No.”
No? No? Well, hell, now what? He recalled Martin telling him about several new magazine ventures featuring stories and photographs of motion-picture actors. He decided to use them to forward his cause.
“Listen, Mari, there’s going to be a lot of publicity about this picture. It’s the most ambitious project Peerless has yet tackled. Motion Picture Story Magazine is going to do a big spread about Lucky Strike. Martin told me they’re sending a photographer and a staff writer to Mojave Wells to take shots of the cast and the location and to write a story about the whole thing. They’re making a big deal out of it.”
“So what?”
In spite of her tone, which was ice cold, and the words, which were clipped, Tony began to take heart. Her eyes no longer exuded loathing; they actually seemed to contain a modicum of interest. He decided to fan the flame, if it was there. “So what? So they’re going to make a big deal out of you, too.”
“What?”
Now she sounded horrified, and Tony wished he had an extra set of legs, so he could kick himself for being a clumsy ass. He drew in another breath and expelled it harshly. “You’re the female star of the picture, Mari, and a brand-new one. It’s part of the excitement to have you playing opposite Reginald Harrowgate, who’s already famous. They’re going to want to write a whole lot about you and take lots of pictures.”
The flowers hit a counter with a smack, and her fists went to her hips. “Nobody told me anything about all of that!”
Tony eyed her. “Oh, come on, Mari. You don’t expect me to believe you’ve never seen a movie magazine, do you?” He didn’t buy it.
“I don’t give a hang what, you believe!” Her voice had risen. “When you and Martin came to my door and asked to rent my mine, you never said anything about sticking my face up all over town.”
“The nation,” Tony muttered, peeved. “Peerless’s influence extends to the entire nation by this time.”
She gasped, irritating Tony’s already rattled senses. “Don’t tell me you didn’t anticipate public interest,” he demanded, “because I really won’t believe that one!”
“But-but—” She seemed to run out of steam. Lifting her arms and letting them drop in a gesture of futility, she murmured, “But, honest, Tiny—I mean, Tony—”
Tony gritted his teeth.
“I never even thought about . . . about-publicity. Photographs. Stuff like that.”
Her eyes started glittering. Tony watched them with dawning horror. Good God, she wasn’t going to cry, was she? Tony hated when women cried at him. He never knew what to do. What’s more, he’d assumed the only females who used tactics like tears were conniving bitches. No matter how much she aggravated him, he couldn’t convict Mari of being one of those.
He made sure his voice sounded sympathetic when he spoke again. “I’m sorry about that, Mari, but it’s a fact of this business.”
“Oh, God.” She sounded as if despair had completely overwhelmed her. Turning around, she covered her face with her hands and bowed her head. He wasn’t sure, but he feared she might have succumbed to her urge to bawl.
Tony didn’t know whether to trust her or not. On the one hand, he couldn’t conceive of Mari Pottersby being untruthful, especially about something like this. On the other hand, what had she expected?
She was a smart cookie. Surely she knew moving pictures were the latest, greatest fad, and not merely in the United States. The whole world was falling under the influence of the pictures and picture actors. Why, Tony wouldn’t be at all surprised if public adulation lifted Mari out of her blasted mine and into some upper stratosphere of fame and glamour.
The notion didn’t sit particularly well with him, since he liked her the way she was.
That is to say . . . dammit, he wished he’d stop getting his thoughts all kinked up like this. He admired her fighting spirit. That’s what he liked about her. Even though that same spirit had got in his way more than once. He feared if she ever became rich and famous, she’d change, and that would be too bad. At least, he thought it might be. It could be.
“Listen, Mari . . .” He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He felt very awkward. “Um, are you crying?”
“No!”
Now he really didn’t believe her. The one word had been so thick, he’d barely understood it. Some unfamiliar compulsion overtook his good sense, and he reached out to place his hands gently on her shoulders. For a second, she stiffened up like cement setting then let her shoulders sag.
“Say, Mari, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you like this. I figured you already knew that you’d be in for a bunch of publicity hounds coming after you.”
He heard her suck in a ragged breath. “I probably should have realized it,” she whispered. “But I didn’t. I’m really stupid, aren’t I?”
Stupid? Well . . . “No. Heck, no You’re not stupid. Just—” Great, now what? “Just innocent.” Yeah, that was good. And truly, Tony supposed it wasn’t stupid of her not to have anticipated publicity. She’d had her mind wrapped around money, not fame. She’d been so desperate to keep that blasted mine working.
He gently tugged her around and into his arms. She felt very good there. Swell, even. “Please don’t cry, Mari.”
“I’m not crying!”
Yeah. Right. He patted her on the back, attempting be brotherly about it, but hampered by the fact that didn’t feel at all like a brother. He felt like drawing her away to some flowered bower and making delicious love to her.
She’d scratch his eyes out if he even tried such a maneuver. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He kept patting and murmuring into her glorious hair. She kept not speaking. At last she heaved a fierce sigh, which lifted her bosom and pressed it into his chest, much to his delight, and tried to pull away from him. He held on for as long as he dared but eventually had to release her. She didn’t lift her head to look at him, and he reached out to tilt her chin up. That uplifted chin of hers had irked him so often, he later marveled that he’d made the gesture.
“Better?” he asked softly.
“I think so.” She yanked a handkerchief out of her pocket and tackled her eyes with vigor.
“Will you let Peerless buy you a nice outfit to wear to dinner in Los Angeles?”
Another sigh, deeper and more soulful than the prior one, escaped her. “I suppose so.” Her tone let him know what she thought about letting other people buy her things.
A tiny tug—virtually a mere pinch—of irritation swept through Tony. It was ludicrous for this impoverished chit to balk at receiving gifts from a company with as much money as Peerless. What did she think Peerless wanted from her in return? They only wanted her to act in a movie. The studio wasn’t going to compromise her, blast it.
Now if it had been Tony who was offering to clothe her, it might have been different. He’d probably really enjoy compromising her, as a matter of fact.
But, he told himself, he was only doing this for Peerless. For the sake of the studio’s newest acquisition. If one could call human beings acquisitions. One of the amendments to the Constitution had put a halt to that sort of thing fifty years and more ago, hadn’t it?
He silently hollered at himself to stop quibbling. Mari Pottersby had become a valuable commodity to the Peerless Studio. It was worth it, both to Peerless and to Tony Ewing, whose father’s money he was supposed to be watching, to clothe her appropriately. So she wouldn’t disgrace the studio. Or his father’s money. Or something like that.
More heartily than he felt inside, he said, “Great. Let me just go pick up those things.”
Racing back to the stall—he didn’t trust Mari not to change her mind due to an excess of pride—he shook his head when the stall keeper tried to give him change back, grabbed the package she’d wrapped up for him, and rushed back to Mari. She was fingering the crepe-paper flowers she’d slammed down on the counter and looking gloomy.
Feeling inspired and not caring if Mari appreciated the gesture or not, Tony grabbed the big bouquet, threw some more money at that stall’s vendor, and shoved the bouquet into Mari’s arms. “Here. Take these. If you say one word about not wanting me to buy them for you, I swear I’ll turn you over my knee and paddle your behind.”
Which didn’t sound like a half-bad idea.
Fortunately for him, Mari didn’t know his mind had wandered onto a sordid path. She even gave him a weak smile and said, “Thank you, Tony.”
He grinned at her gratefully, and not merely because she hadn’t called him Tiny. “You’re more than welcome. Now, let’s get some lunch. I’m famished.”
“Okay. Thanks “
He led her to a restaurant with an outdoor patio that he’d discovered on one of his earlier jaunts onto Olvera Street. They decided to take their noon meal inside, since the air was cooler in there and stirred by electrical fans. He noticed how much more fun it was to explore new scenes with a companion. Even a companion like Mari, who was apt to argue with him every time he opened his mouth, beat the tar out of venturing into new territory solo.
Actually—he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to admit it—he’d rather be in Mari’s company than anyone else’s.
Damn. That was silly. He didn’t mean it.
His confused thoughts scattered upon the arrival of a waiter. With a smile for Mari, he said, “I can recommend the tacos and the chiles rellenos. Haven’t had anything else.”
“My goodness, I’ve never even heard of most of this stuff. I know what an enchilada is, I. think.”
“Oh, yeah, I had one of those, too. They’re good.”
“I think I’ll have the . . . Oh.”
Bother, now what? Tony sighed and peered at Mari, who looked stricken, with her menu clutched to her chest. Her eyes were huge and beautiful in the dim indoor light. He tried not to allow his vexation to seep into his voice. “What is it, Mari?” Tact. He had to remember he needed to use tact with this prickly female.
She lowered the menu and swallowed. From the expression on her face, she’d just received a message filled with tragedy and doom—it must have been delivered telepathically, since Tony knew damned well nothing physical had happened.
“I don’t have any money.”
He stared at her for at least thirty seconds before a “Good God” leaked out of his mouth.
That made her chin tilt up, her eyes thin, and her mouth pinch into a straight line. At once, Tony scrambled to recover lost ground. “I mean, that’s not a problem. I have plenty of money.”
“I don’t expect you to pay for my lunch.”
He couldn’t help it; he rolled his eyes in exasperation. It was the wrong thing to have done. Naturally. What was the right thing to do with this cantankerous female? “Listen, Mari, I don’t care what you expect. My expectations for myself are every bit as great as yours are for you. Whether you want to admit it or not, I am a gentleman. I asked you to dine with me. The gentleman always pays.”
“But—”
To stop her, he pointed a finger right at her nose. Her eyes crossed, and she blinked. “And don’t you even think about arguing with me. You’ve come to Los Angeles on business. It’s my business to see that you’re fed, clothed, and housed appropriately for as long as you’re working for Peerless. And don’t forget it again.”
There. He felt better now. Although he withdrew his hand and stopped pointing at her, he didn’t drop his tough-guy attitude. He saw her swallow again, prayed briefly that she wouldn’t fight him on the luncheon issue, and breathed an internal sigh of relief when she said only, “Oh. All right. I guess I understand.”
Thank God. He wondered how long her new understanding would last. He wasn’t optimistic.