“He’s good,” the choreographer told Tad and Kate, as Aurelio tapped and whirled his way around a rehearsal room. “And he looks good with Bonnie.”
Tad watched, his arms crossed. “I was worried he didn’t have enough formal training.”
The choreographer shrugged. “Plenty of stage experience. Says he grew up doing Mexican dance shows with his uncle, then traveled with a hoofer group for a while learning all the modern stuff. He has a unique way of moving. Very loose and natural, but perfect control. It’s fun to watch. You can’t teach someone to move like that.”
At the moment, Aurelio looked exhausted, his arms barely rising as his black shoes tapped and turned. Kate was tired too, after her late night with Hugo, but didn’t have to dance all day.
“Okay, let’s see if he makes it this time,” the choreographer said, and they all watched as Aurelio leaped onto a chair with one foot, then onto a table with the other. His momentum took him past the center of the table, and he whirled, quickly crouching to save himself, as the table wobbled.
The choreographer lifted the record player needle, and the music halted.
“Sorry.” Aurelio looked up from his crouch, breathing hard. “I slipped. Table’s wet from my sweat.”
“You’re doing fine,” the choreographer said, tossing him a white towel. “Wipe the table and take a few minutes to catch your breath.”
Tad leaned toward Kate. “What time is his diction coach today?”
She glanced at her clipboard. “Five o’clock, double-booked with dinner.” She frowned. “How is he supposed to eat and learn how to speak at the same time?”
“Aurelio!” Tad called. “We need faster progress on the accent. The diction coach said you struggled yesterday, and you start filming in a few days.”
Aurelio came closer, draping the white towel around his neck. Even exhausted and sweaty, he was exquisite, his skin gleaming like light brown silk. He was smaller than most men, but tight with muscle. “Do I have to have an accent? Why can’t I just talk like normal? It’s hard to learn all that.”
“How hard can it be, talking like a Mexican when you’re a Mexican?”
Aurelio squinted, wiping sweat above his eyes. “But I don’t talk like that.”
“Which is why we have diction coaches. All the new actors need them.”
“Sure … to talk fancy. I get that. But this guy wants me to say things all wrong.”
“The Latin angle is one of the reasons we hired you, and we lose all the impact if you sound like you were born in…” Tad waved a vague hand.
“Fresno,” Aurelio said, starting to look a bit miffed. “I was born in Fresno, California.”
“Right, but your ancestors immigrated from Mexico.”
“No … they lived in California when it was Mexico.” Aurelio put his hands on his hips. “Your ancestors are the ones who immigrated.”
Tad looked more amused than annoyed. “It’s a role, Aurelio. If you want it, learn the accent.” He turned for the door.
Kate cast Aurelio a sympathetic smile and followed. “Is the accent really necessary?” she asked, following Tad down the hall.
He glanced back. “You’re the one who convinced me to go with a Latin lover. All those girls kissing his picture.”
“They’ll be kissing his gorgeous lips, not some fake accent.” It was easier to keep up with Tad, now that she was wearing slacks and loafers. The weather was a little warm for the fitted, short-sleeved sweater she wore, tucked in at the waist, but all her blouses were still wrinkled.
Tad turned down the staircase. “The publicity team loves the angle. They’re bringing in a Mexican backdrop for the photo shoot and a proud mama to kiss his cheek. They’re going to say our music director was on vacation and heard him singing while he drove his donkey cart. Brought him back to Hollywood and was amazed at how quickly he picked up dancing. A complete natural.”
“That’s ridiculous. No one’s going to believe he just learned how to dance.”
“People believe what we tell them to believe.” They reached the ground floor. “Nobody wants to hear about a boy who’s been dancing on stage since he was three. They want rags to riches. Innate talent that springs from nowhere.”
“A pack of lies,” Kate said.
“More exciting than the truth.” They turned down a long hall lined with doors. “It’s called image, Kate. Every star needs one. You think Shirley Temple’s hair grows out of her head that way? She’s got a stage mama forcing her to sit still for curlers every night, but nobody wants to hear about that. Movie stars are supposed to be bigger than life. Nobody wants to buy a movie ticket to watch Archibald Leach get the girl.”
“Who’s Archibald Leach?”
Tad grinned down at her. “Cary Grant. Son of a penniless drunk, expelled from school, called himself Rubber Legs when he started out in showbiz. Hollywood erased all that and turned him into a debonair heartthrob.” He opened a door. “Someday, your friend is going to thank me for that accent.”
They entered another rehearsal room—larger than the one Aurelio had been in, with a dozen or so teenagers stomping through steps in a line as a man played the piano. Some of the teenagers fumbled with the footwork, but Kate knew that was part of the scene—Trixie’s friends learning a dance number for the show they hoped would earn enough money to save the town’s old theater.
Sydney—a man Kate had met the day before—called out, “It’s right foot over left every time. Step, step, back. Okay, Mikey, give me your line.”
A boy with glasses pretended to fall. “Ah, shucks, I’m no good at this! Can’t I just do the lighting or something?” The other kids groaned and stopped dancing.
There was a moment of silence before Sydney called with measured patience, “Trixie!”
“Oh!” The girl standing in for Bonnie read from a script. “We need you on stage, Joey. This theater needs all of us. But it’s getting late, so let’s call it a day. Thanks, everyone!” The teenagers fell out of formation, smiling and murmuring as they moved to the side of the room.
Sydney noticed Tad. “Take five, everyone!” He walked toward them.
“Looks like the newbies are catching on,” Tad said.
“They’re all right. Kids, though—the attention of gnats.” Sydney pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “When do I get to work with the new lead boy? He’s gotta know these scenes too.”
“Aurelio Dios,” Kate supplied.
“He’s working on his solo dance right now. Kate, what’s his schedule?”
She lifted a page on her clipboard. “This room, one o’clock.”
Sydney stuck a cigarette between his lips. “I need a new pianist. This one keeps flubbing up.”
“I’ll talk to music, but they’re short on people right now. Too many musicals going on at the same time.” Tad frowned, and Kate knew he thought the music department always sent him their leftovers, as part of the conspiracy to trip up Clive Falcon’s privileged boy. “Keep up the good work, Sydney.” He opened the door.
“So … the music department is short on musicians?” Kate asked as they made their way down the hall. “One of Ollie’s boarders is a violinist, and he’s looking for work.”
“We hire from the unions.”
“He could join a union. He’s very good.” At least, she thought he was, when he wasn’t playing the song of the damned. “Can we get him an audition? He acts too.”
“Don’t waste your time on that this week. We have enough on our plate.” Tad glanced down at her, amused. “You’re not going to make me hire all your grandfather’s boarders, are you?”
She’d been waiting for a good time to mention Hugo. “Actually … there is one more actor. He’s eighteen, and I think he’d be great in something. Not this movie, something more serious. He has these eyes that draw you in. Sort of dangerous, but thoughtful too. You can’t look away.” She didn’t know how to describe Hugo.
Tad cast her a quizzical look as he opened the outer door. “Sounds like you’re getting close to this particular boarder.”
Her face warmed as she walked through to the outside. “I just think he’s talented and deserves a chance.”
“Well, I’m not sure you should be living in that house.” They turned down the sidewalk. “I could help you find some place decent to live, if you want. The studio has bungalows at the back where you could stay until you find something better. We keep them for the stars, but they rarely use them.”
Two days ago, Kate would have jumped at the chance to sleep somewhere else, but not now. “My grandfather’s house is perfectly decent, thank you.”
“A man was murdered there, Kate.”
“No one in the house had anything to do with that.”
They entered the two-story building with palm trees out front, where Tad had an office in the back corner of the ground floor—purposefully unassuming, he’d told Kate, so people would know he was there to work, not ride his father’s coattails. An extra desk had been brought in for Kate, but so far she’d never actually worked there.
They entered the office to find an impressively tall woman leaning against the front of Tad’s desk, reading a bound script, wearing a vivid green dress with a gold brooch on the shoulder. “Mindless rubbish,” she muttered. Her hair was icy gray, cut in an old-fashioned, chin-length bob.
Tad stopped and put his hands on his hips. “Stella Nixon,” he said with distaste. “What are you doing here?”
The woman took her time putting down the script and picking up a cigarette from an ashtray before giving him her attention. The cigarette dangled between two fingers. “Hello, Taddy. Looks like we get the pleasure of working together again.”
“What are you talking about? Horace Musgrave is the writer on this picture.”
“Not anymore.” Her voice had the throatiness of a long-time smoker. “He’s been pulled away for more … promising projects, so your daddy called me in to patch up this sweet little script of yours.” She brought the cigarette to her lips.
“No, no, no.” Tad walked around his desk and picked up the phone. “He can’t take Horace.”
The woman seemed unfazed by the rebuff, tipping her chin down to appraise Kate over small, round spectacles. “You must be Kitty.”
“Kate,” she corrected.
“Yes, that suits you better. I’m Stella Nixon. Your grandfather is an old friend of mine. Not that I’m old, mind you.” She smiled, revealing a gap between her two front teeth. The subtle wrinkles around her eyes suggested an age similar to Ollie’s, somewhere in her fifties. “I stop by and visit him now and then.” The knowing look in her eyes suggested she understood the situation. “I was in three pictures with Ollie, back in the day. Once, he saved me from cannibals, once he shot me, and once he threw me off a bridge. I decided to stop acting and write the scripts.”
“Sounds like a wise choice,” Kate said.
Tad argued into the phone, “She’ll overthink every line. You know how she is. I don’t have time for that.”
Stella gave Kate a self-satisfied smile as she blew a stream of smoke. “You’re certainly the talk of the town, everyone abuzz about you joining Falcon. We need more women in this business. We’ve gone extinct.”
Kate had spent the first hour of the morning watching five teenaged girls sing a song in Trixie’s bedroom. “Our picture has more girls in it than boys.”
“Pish! I’m not talking about actresses.” Stella put her hand on her bony hip, the cigarette perilously close to the green dress. “I’m talking about decision makers. Directors and producers. Editors and cinematographers. Have you seen any of those of the female variety at Falcon Pictures?”
Kate thought of the men Tad interacted with throughout the day, with manly slaps on the shoulder and the occasional crude joke, and the semicircle of men who’d inspected her in Clive Falcon’s office. “No women,” she realized aloud.
“Exactly. There used to be plenty of us at the top. I directed fifteen pictures and nobody thought anything of it. Mary Pickford wasn’t just some curly-haired sweetheart on the screen, she owned the studio and called all the shots. And Lois Weber was a powerhouse—producing, directing, writing. And Lois’s films really said something—like Where Are My Children? That movie had the entire country talking about—” Stella caught herself, looking sharply at Kate.
“What?”
“Never you mind. Anyway, that was the movie business in the early days—women accepted as equals.”
“What changed?” Kate asked.
“Money.” Stella flicked the cigarette at the ashtray. “Movies weren’t just fun and games anymore, they were big business, which brought in Wall Street investors, and they decided pretty little ladies weren’t smart enough for all that complicated money talk.” She smiled, showing the gap in her teeth. “Lucky for me, I’m not so pretty. Or so little.” She had to be close to six feet tall.
Kate liked her. “So, the women got pushed out of the business?”
“And the small men—financially speaking. The studios that got all that nice investment money bought up all the theaters in the country and only showed their own movies, putting the little moviemakers out of business. The big studios got bigger, and the rest disappeared. Now, only a few men run the entire industry, not a woman in sight. And that, my friend, is why all the movies are stereotyped claptrap.”
“You’re still in the business,” Kate said, admiring that.
“Oh, they don’t mind us sitting behind a typewriter, but you won’t find any women running the show. Dorothy Arzner still directs, but she’s the only one. And not a single producer.” Stella brought the cigarette to her lips. “Until you.”
Kate gave a short laugh. “I’m just an assistant. I run errands for Tad.”
“That’s not what I hear.” Stella blew a stream of smoke. “According to Horace, you talked back to Clive Falcon, saved Tad’s movie from a scheduling disaster, and discovered the young Fred Astaire everyone’s been searching for.”
“That’s a complete exaggeration,” Kate said, both surprised and a little proud that Horace Musgrave had said nice things about her. “For one thing, Aurelio got that job with his own talent.”
“First rule of Hollywood, darling—accept all the credit whether you deserve it or not. That boy has probably been on a hundred auditions and nobody paid any attention—until you. Maybe you should be a casting director.” Stella appraised Kate, the cigarette tipped out. “No … you look like a girl who wants to run the whole show. I saw you in the newspaper with Tad. Maybe you should marry him and take over Falcon Pictures someday. Clive can’t live forever.”
Kate glanced at Tad, but he was too busy on the phone to have heard. She lowered her voice. “If I decide to become a producer, I’ll get there on my own merits, not with a wedding ring.”
Stella’s mouth twitched. “Good girl. I was just testing you.” She brought the cigarette to her smiling lips.
“Anyway, I’m not really interested in the movie business, long term. I’m going to be an astronomer.”
Stella’s eyebrows lifted. “The real stars, eh?”
“As soon as this movie is over, I’m going back to San Francisco so I can…” Kate wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.
Live with my aunt and her new husband who despises me. Attend Blakely Academy, where I’m secretary of the student council and president of the astronomy club. Attend yacht club dances with society boys I don’t particularly like but don’t mind either.
Stella Nixon wasn’t going to be impressed by any of that. And suddenly, Kate wasn’t either, wondering why she’d been in such a hurry to leave Hollywood and get back to calculus.
Tad hung up the phone. “I’m stuck with you, Stella, but I don’t have time for your funny stuff. Your job is to change the lead boy and leave the rest alone.”
Stella twirled a hand in mock obeisance. “Your wish is my command.”
“I’m late for a meeting.” He pointed at Kate on his way to the door. “Stay here, and don’t let her change a word of that script that doesn’t need changing. Every word takes time, and—”
“—time is money!” Stella declared grandly. “Don’t worry, Taddy, I won’t waste a dime of your precious budget giving Trixie a brain.”
He looked back from the doorway. “And don’t fill my assistant’s head with your radical ideas!” He disappeared.
Stella murmured, “As if you weren’t capable of your own radical thoughts.” She stubbed the cigarette and picked up the script. “Have a seat, Kate. We have a lot of work to do.”
Kate sat at her desk. “I don’t know anything about writing scripts.”
“You can do the typing. I’ve got arthritis lately, which is our little secret. Now—you’re a teenaged girl. Tell me if these words would ever come out of your mouth.” Stella read from the page in a smoky, dramatic voice. “You decide for both of us, Juan Pablo. My head is too full of silly thoughts to know what I want.” She peered at Kate over her spectacles. “Mind you, this is ice cream they’re talking about.”
Kate smiled as she grabbed a sheet of paper and rolled it into her typewriter. This was going to be a lot more fun than taking notes at a student council meeting.