“How was your lunch with Chelsea?” Eleanor, dressed in a lemon-colored linen pantsuit, handed Bailey a mug of coffee.
“Okay.”
Eleanor sat down at the table and stirred her tea. “You arrived fifteen minutes early this morning for a reason.”
Bailey stared at Eleanor’s beautiful white hair and delicate features and momentarily forgot why she had come there so early. “You are a stunning woman.” The words slipped out of Bailey’s mouth before she had a chance to censor them.
Eleanor laughed. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Ms. Hampton. But it’s still nice to hear at my age.”
“You and Daphne were quite the couple, weren’t you?”
“That we were. Although to prying minds, I was her close friend.” She framed the words with quotation marks in the air. “Or her traveling companion. Or her secretary.”
“You were never called her lover, were you?”
“You know the answer to that one. Back then, it was unheard of. Even today, how many out gay actors and actresses do you know about in Hollywood? It’s rarely done.”
“How difficult was that? And how difficult was it for you when she married in 1954?”
Eleanor grimaced as if in physical pain.
Bailey mentally kicked herself for bringing it up.
“It nearly killed me, my girl. But let’s stop talking about me. Remember our agreement?”
Bailey nodded.
“I think you came early to talk about someone else, someone who still means a great deal to you.”
At those words, Bailey choked up. Eleanor’s thin fingers wrapped around her wrist.
“You still love her very much, don’t you?” Eleanor asked softly.
“Yes, but it’s too late.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s never too late for love.”
Bailey blew out a breath. “I don’t think she feels the same way.”
“Do you know what I think? I think the two of you gave up much, much too easily. Love isn’t always simple. Sometimes you have to fight for it. I see so many young people walk away from relationships when it begins to get a little rough. There’s something going on between you two. You have chemistry, and you only need to mix the ingredients properly to make the formula whole again.” Eleanor looked past Bailey’s shoulder. “Hello, Chelsea.”
“Hello, Eleanor. Bailey.” Chelsea approached the table and noticed Bailey wiping at her cheeks. Was she crying?
Bailey kept her face averted.
“While we’ve awaited your arrival, we’ve been having a lovely discussion. Bailey even tried to get me to open up to some questions. No worries. I almost fell under her spell. Tell me, was she always this persuasive when you were together?”
“She could be.” Chelsea pulled out her chair and sank down in the soft cushion.
“Coffee?” Eleanor asked.
“No, thank you.”
“I imagine you’re ready to move forward this morning?”
“Speaking for myself, yes. I can hardly wait.”
Bailey’s reaction was a slight nod.
Eleanor pushed the diary toward Bailey. “Your turn, my dear.”
“I think Chelsea sounded fine, and you said you loved her voice. Why don’t we let her read again this morning?”
Chelsea was about to object but didn’t get the chance.
“Begin, Chelsea,” Eleanor said.
Bailey slid the diary across the table. Chelsea reached for it. Their fingers touched, and Bailey jerked her hand back and shifted farther away in her chair. Chelsea was about to say something, but Eleanor interrupted her.
“Please.” Eleanor nodded at the diary.
Chelsea thumbed to the marker and opened the book.
“Monday, 28 August 1950. The delivery boy from the florist down the street appeared at the door, struggling to open it. He shifted the large bouquet of roses over to one hand as he pulled the handle and staggered inside…”