Julie hurried from the small office assigned to her in the Writers’ Building, carrying her latest screenplay rewrite assignment, a romance set in Paris that Mayer had decreed a little too sprightly for the times. Calm it down—that’s what he wanted—but there must be no mention of war or Hitler or anything dark.

“The usual Hollywood response,” Andy said with a roll of the eyes when she told him her instructions.

Coming toward her was a man with long, matchstick-thin legs and a familiar face. Who was he? She remembered—this was one of the screenwriters in Abe Goldman’s entourage. She had seen him around. He pretended to be British, and was usually wearing a carefully arranged silk cravat and a testy frown. He gave her a brisk nod, slowing enough to scan the folder in her hands swiftly. She resisted the instinct to clutch it tight, reminding herself that the cover was blank. No name on the screenplay.

He swept on, leaving in his wake an aura of feigned superiority. There was no way he could know for sure that, yes, it was one of his.

“Never put the names of your screenplays on the cover,” Frances Marion had counseled. “Men turn hostile if a woman gets one of their scripts for rewrite. You’ll make enemies just being here; no need to court them.”

“Nice day, Harvey,” Julie called out to the man’s retreating back. She actually found herself enjoying the sparring of this new game.

“Yes, it is,” said a voice. She turned again. Doris was standing in front of her, hair sleekly coiffed, her bright-red lips parted in a wide smile. She wore one of the largest pair of sunglasses Julie had yet seen, so big they tipped forward, exposing part of her eyes. What was she doing on the MGM lot?

“Hello,” she managed. “I’m surprised—”

“You’re wondering why I’m here,” Doris said. “Well, I’m on a tryout for scriptwriting, same as you were. I guess that’s what everybody wants to do these days.”

“I didn’t know you wrote scripts.”

Doris shrugged, affecting a jaunty tone. “I’m bored, now that all the whooping and hollering over Gone with the Wind is over at Selznick International. Worked for you, right? Maybe lightning will strike twice—you never know.” She reached up and took off her glasses.

Julie was taken aback. There was uncertainty in Doris’s eyes, not the usual superior scorn. She wondered what to read into that, but did it matter? She no longer felt threatened. She had—she reminded herself—come a long way since their confrontation in Chasen’s marble-and-glass ladies’ room.

“I never really was a rival of yours, you know,” Doris said, almost as if she had read Julie’s thoughts. “Though I certainly wanted to be.” She smiled almost wistfully.

“Maybe I was too quick at feeling threatened,” Julie offered.

“You grew up. You don’t seem like a kid anymore.”

“I guess that’s a positive thing.” Julie smiled.

“So now you’re in line for the big time. Any tips? Or should we still be thinking of ourselves in competition?” Doris’s tone had sharpened slightly.

So here it was, an invitation to dip a spoon again into the tasty pleasure of modest power. “Yes, actually,” Julie said, pointing to the script—emblazoned in large type with the title—in Doris’s hands. “Always carry your scripts in unmarked folders. You don’t want the original writers to see them.”

Doris looked momentarily startled. Then, “Okay,” she said.

“Good luck.” Julie couldn’t think of anything else to say. Too many troughs and blind corners. And, she thought as she hurried away, if she was completely honest with herself, she remained intimidated by those long legs.

The tempo leading to the premiere was quickening. A million visitors were expected to flood into Atlanta for a grand, dizzying three-day celebration of the opening of Gone with the Wind.

Nothing was being overlooked, Mayer was making sure of that. There was to be a grand ball, so MGM sent the original costumes from the charity-bazaar scene to Atlanta for the stars to wear again, along with the original stage set, shipped in segments, to be re-created in Atlanta at a cost of ten thousand dollars. There would be street bands and concerts and parties and glittering guests from everywhere.

Clark remained resistant to the last, as did Victor Fleming, who now had no love for Selznick. They agreed they would not go to Atlanta. But on the day when Clark flatly refused to fly with Selznick and the rest of the cast on a TWA chartered plane, Carole stepped in.

“Enough of this childishness,” she yelled at her husband. Julie was amazed at the volume Carole could summon when she wanted to. “I’ve got a new dress for the premiere, I want to go, and I even took your father and stepmother out and bought them new duds. Get off your ass, honey. This is our party!”

Andy laughed when Julie related the scene. “I love her,” he said.

“I was standing in the bedroom, trying on a couple of her gowns for the premiere, when she reined in Clark,” Julie said. “But he wins on one front—they’re going to charter a separate plane, from American Airlines.”

“This is kind of a useless carnival—” Andy started to say.

Julie reached out and clamped a hand over his mouth. “Please, Andy, let’s just enjoy,” she whispered. “Allow yourself to play.”

His eyes were steady as he looked at her, but, for a moment, beyond sad. Where was he going? she thought, alarmed.

Then everything was all right again.

He gently lifted her hand away and kissed it. “Will I be able to unhook that dress easily after the party?” he murmured.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Just to make it easier? I won’t wear anything under it.”

“Perfect.” He pulled her tight and they kissed, lazily and long.

The two planes—each with a stenciled logo on the side reading GWTW—touched down at the Atlanta airfield one after the other, so smoothly it looked as if two planes had been the idea all along.

Julie peered from the window as they taxied after landing. A line of black limousines threaded from plane to terminal, with a uniformed chauffeur standing at attention next to each one. At the very front of the line were two splendid Packard convertibles for the major stars.

“For one long weekend, we’re all royalty, rhinestone variety,” Andy said. “Did you see what The New York Times called us this morning? ‘The golden boys and girls of Hollywood.’ ”

“Will you allow yourself to have fun?” she asked.

“Yes, kid. For you.”

“Don’t be so self-sacrificing.” She felt a flash of annoyance. But that evaporated as they settled into the limousines and started on the seven-mile motorcade to the Biltmore Hotel.

“Jesus, look at the crowds,” Clark said with a touch of awe. Only later did they learn that over three hundred thousand people—many of them in vintage clothes from the Civil War era—had lined the path of their journey. Street musicians marched with the caravan, playing “Dixie.” Aged veterans—standing straight and proud in their Confederate uniforms—lined the parade route, some holding ancient rifles. The atmosphere was almost hysterically jubilant. At one point, an elegant-looking woman tore off a long white leather glove and threw it to Clark, who ducked, discomfited.

“Pa, I’ll bet you a fiver someone throws a pair of pantaloons next!” Carole yelled over the cheers.

“You’re on!” Clark yelled back. His dark mood had lifted.

It was as Andy had predicted: any actor receiving this much adulation would have a hard time staying angry, something Selznick knew very well.

They were almost to the Georgian Terrace Hotel, where the premiere gala would be held, when, suddenly, caught like a flapping kite in the breeze, a pair of old-fashioned knickers came flying through the air, landing on Clark’s head.

“Pay up, Pa!” yelled Carole. “Close enough to pantaloons!”

No expense would be spared, by the city or by MGM, for the weekend. At the lavish ball on Thursday night—as Clark and the others prepared to bring their roles to life for the benefit of Atlanta—Carole, swathed in black velvet and silver fox, held court in a box seat, laughing and joking, scribbling out autographs for the cluster of people gathered around her. And no matter who was pleading, it was clear, from some disappointed looks, that she was sticking to her determination to sign only as “Carole Gable.” This was Clark’s party, not hers.

Then the high point of the evening—Clark, Vivien, and Olivia swept into the room in full costume, magically transformed back to their fictional characters. The effect was almost surreal. The crowd clapped and cheered.

“I’m not sure if we’re all in a movie or not.” Julie giggled as Andy took her for a graceful swing around the room. She liked the feel of her body in her new dress, which was quite simple, a column of apricot silk caught at the throat with a small diamond pin once owned by her grandmother. Not expensive. Her paycheck was getting fatter, but not yet ready for designer gowns. The wardrobe mistress had offered to lend her one of the dresses worn by the extras, but Julie was glad she had decided not to try living up to a costume.

“When do you wear the sexy one you borrowed from Carole?” Andy asked as they took a deft second turn around the glittering ballroom.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“It’s beautiful, honey. I’m talking sexy.”

“Tomorrow, so don’t go away.”

Andy laughed, holding her closer. He had to be enjoying himself; how could he not? This was all glamorous and fun. She threw her head back, letting her hair swing loose, wanting the dance never to stop. Surely, just tonight, he felt the same way. And tomorrow? She laughed to herself. Well, of course, tomorrow was another day. Thank you, Scarlett.

All of Atlanta danced toward the weekend’s climax. For the Hollywood contingent, the next day flew by in a blur of lunches and speeches and meetings filled with popping flashbulbs, giggling ladies in their grandmothers’ ball gowns, schoolchildren clamoring for autographs, publicists ushering the stars through the crowds that gathered everywhere they went—in parks blooming with flowers, in their hotels, in the restaurants—all straining for a view of the mythical heroes and heroines of their fondly remembered mythical history.

Clark made his way through the day, flabbergasted. “They sure take us seriously,” he mumbled to Carole.

Dusk was gathering when, on cue, a dozen monster-sized floodlights placed strategically around the center of town suddenly switched on, sending columns of light cutting upward, to meet in a brilliant, glittering crown above Loew’s Grand Theater—where Gone with the Wind was about to be presented to the city of Atlanta. December 15, 1939, a day they’d all remember.

Julie peeked out the window of the car as their caravan crawled toward the theater, amazed at the sight that greeted them when they pulled closer. The façade of the grand old theater had been transformed into a replica of Twelve Oaks, the ancestral home of the Wilkes family. It was done so cleverly, Julie could almost imagine walking herself into the library once again. She smoothed down the folds of her borrowed red silk gown, still feeling half naked without underwear, wondering how Carole could be so comfortable about her body.

“Honey,” Carole had said as they prepared to leave the hotel, “quit tugging at that dress. You can’t wear britches with my clothes, so relax and enjoy the feel of the silk on your skin.”

She was trying.

They were almost there. Julie saw a scattering of people waving placards and peered hard to make out what they said. GONE WITH THE WIND GLORIFIES SLAVERY, read one. YOU’D BE SWEET TOO UNDER A WHIP, read another.

She had started to point them out to the others when a loud yipping scream rose from the enormous crowds on the sidewalk.

“What the hell is that?” Clark said.

“That’s the Rebel yell,” a soft-spoken Atlanta publicist said with a nervous smile. “They’re welcoming you.” Then, proudly, “People are more interested in Gone with the Wind than in what’s going on in Europe. Isn’t that grand?”

Julie glanced swiftly at Andy, hoping he hadn’t heard. His expression didn’t change, but he seemed subdued—he had been all day, she suddenly realized. Yes, ever since she saw him huddled with Selznick in a corner of the hotel this morning.

Now Clark’s attention was taken by something else: he pointed at a slight woman alongside their car on the sidewalk who was hurrying for the lobby, face averted from the crowd, looking like a skittery bird with her long tan coat flapping open. She wore laced-up black oxfords, and her hair was pulled back into a severe bun.

“Ma, is that who I think it is?” he said.

Carole peered. “Well, I’ll be damned.” She laughed. “Pa, I think you’re about to meet the woman who created you. And I sure don’t mean your mother.”

Margaret Mitchell turned her head at the sound of Carole’s voice and stared through the open window at Clark as their car pulled up to the curb. Her lips managed a faint smile.

Margaret Mitchell was waiting for them in the lobby, her husband standing protectively beside her. Julie guessed at once that she was not plain and drab, but was trying for some reason to appear so: to be overlooked, to make herself invisible. From what was she hiding, this woman who had written such an astounding book—a book that took her ten years to complete—who wrote seventy chapters, stuffed them into envelopes, and sent them off to a publisher? Who rocked the world of publishing and won a Pulitzer Prize? Who—a Southern belle, Smith College dropout, survivor of several marriages—then shrank back from the public scene but answered every letter sent to her about her book?

Introductions were made, but it was Carole who held out her hand first. “Miss Mitchell,” she said, “I have two questions. May I?”

“Yes, of course,” Mitchell replied, looking a little nervous.

“Did you really name your heroine Pansy at first?”

“Yes. Terrible choice, wasn’t it?”

“Lordy, yes, indeed,” Carole said with feeling. “I can’t see Vivien playing anyone named Pansy.”

“What’s your second question?” Mitchell was visibly relaxing.

“Now, this I have to ask. Were you thinking about Clark when you created Rhett Butler?”

Mitchell shook her head quickly. “I keep hearing that, but no, no.” She looked at Clark with an almost flirtatious glance. “Sorry, Mr. Gable. But if you do as good a job as I think you’ll do bringing Rhett alive, I’ll change my story.”

“I’ve done my best,” an obviously impressed Clark responded. He actually bowed, looking gallant in his white tie and tails, then took the author’s small white hand in his and kissed it.

Julie for a second feared Carole would come up with a wonderful, ribald joke about Clark’s true level of devotion to Rhett, but she managed to restrain herself. Fortunately, it was time to enter the theater.

Carole and Clark were ushered in first: Clark, trying not to look uncomfortable in his formal clothes, Carole sinuous and lovely in gold lamé. Vivien, escorted by Laurence Olivier—publicly, now that Selznick had no objections to their liaison anymore—followed, her head held high and her eyes triumphant.

The crowd of guests filled the theater’s red velvet seats, chattering, speculating, eyes darting here and there; they were measuring their own importance by assessing that of the others lucky enough to be here at the premiere.

When David Selznick came striding out on the stage, silence fell. Once more, this feared tyrant and perfectionist looked different—eager, excited—and his voice shook with pride and excitement. He seemed smaller, somehow, standing on a grand stage—and yet, to Julie’s eye, larger than ever.

The movie began. The splendid, soaring score written by composer Max Steiner—working in twenty-hour shifts to produce the longest score ever written for a movie—exploded into the lofty, elaborately molded interior of the theater, taking Julie’s breath away. Selznick hadn’t wanted an original score—he had wanted all classical music—but Steiner had won that fight. It was breathtaking music, and Julie found herself again swept up into the world of Gone with the Wind.

Her enthrallment was not going away. Strange. Even though she had been part of Gone with the Wind only as a spectator, it had soaked through her skin and into her heart. This was what a movie could be. And it hadn’t come out of the sky, blazing and perfect. Nothing could soar, could become magical, without sweat and a touch of stardust. This “troubled project,” as critics enjoyed calling it, was the result of weeks and months of anger and tensions, of disruptions and mistakes and fears. Gone with the Wind was in constant turmoil from start to finish; that was no secret. I mustn’t forget that, she told herself. Not if she was staying in this business.

The applause that followed the final scene was deafening. The curtains closed and the lights went up and people stood as one, still applauding.

Carole knew whom they were looking for. She turned to Margaret Mitchell, who was seated next to Clark. “They want you, honey,” she said.

“No, no,” Mitchell protested, seemingly overcome by the response.

“Here, I’ll help you.” Carole took her by the hand and led her up to the stage, then stepped back. The applause grew even louder.

Margaret Mitchell looked tiny and frail against the backdrop of the heavy velvet curtains that reached to the rafters. She clutched a handkerchief, twisting it in her hands, then finally spoke. “Thank you,” she said. “I am overwhelmed. Thank you all for this movie. I thank you for me and my poor Scarlett.”

Late that night, lying in Andy’s arms in a giant bed that was filled with soft, billowing pillows, Julie couldn’t get that moment out of her mind. “Such a big book came from such a little woman,” she murmured. “Andy, you’ve been part of creating something wonderful. You should be proud.”

He didn’t answer at first. “Honey, I wish it could be that way,” he then said.

“Well, why can’t it?” She tried to hold back anxiety from her voice. Something was waiting in the wings again.

He was silent for a moment, taking the time to reach for his ever-present cigarettes on the bedside table. He lit one, inhaled, and stared at the ceiling. “I need to tell you something.”

She lifted her head, trying to see his face in the darkness. Then waited.

“Selznick wants to assign me to the next Colbert movie as director, with a big raise. Told me this morning.”

“Andy!” Julie bolted upright to a sitting position. She was wide awake now. “That’s wonderful. This is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it?”

“Well—it forces my hand.”

“What does that mean?”

He took a deep breath. “Julie, I realized today—with all this hoopla—I can’t do it. I can’t live this life, not now. It’s not enough to be sending bribe money for French officials and offering sponsorships to get people out of Europe anymore. I’ve got to get into this thing. I can’t be happy if I don’t.”

“I will make you happy.” She said it, trying not to make it a cry of dread.

He kissed her forehead. “You do, you do. But I have to get over there. Leslie did it right. He didn’t waste a minute. He got the hell out of here. Maybe Ashley Wilkes is a weak character, but Leslie Howard—no matter how he played that part—is a strong man.”

“He’s British, you’re American. This is crazy!”

Andy leaned over and switched on the light. “I’ve dithered for too long, Julie. It’s souring me—I can feel it happening—and I don’t want that.” He took her hand. “I’m taking a job with the International Red Cross in Europe, doing whatever they want me to do, including going as a delegate to internment camps. Somebody’s got to monitor treatment of civilians as well as prisoners of war, and they’re the only ones who can do it.”

The hammer had descended. “You want to find your family,” she said.

“That’s part of it.”

They sat until the first weak rays of daylight crept up in the Atlanta sky, huddled in robes, on the edge of the bed. He told her his plan. It was simple enough. If Germany wouldn’t let the Red Cross delegates into their camps, he would volunteer to help at anything needed. He could set up auxiliary hospitals, go wherever they would let him go. “Even the British aren’t too fussy about accents these days,” he said in an attempt at lightness. “They’ll take anybody willing to sign up. Even a Yank will do.”

“You have this all planned out,” she said.

He lowered his head. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time,” he admitted.

She scrambled to muster arguments. “I need you,” she said. “You can’t leave, and you don’t have to. We’re not in this war.”

“We will be. I can’t wait any longer. And … look, you don’t need me.”

“How can you say that?” Even as she protested, startled, she heard the truth in his words.

“Julie, Julie, remember how outraged you were when I thought you were fragile? That you would sooner or later be defeated here? Yeah, I loved a woman who fell apart, who blamed me for her troubles. I didn’t want that again.”

She nodded, tears beginning to sting the corners of her eyes.

“Honey, you’ve proven me wrong.” He reached out and gently pushed her hair back from her face. “I’m proud of you. You stand up for yourself, and you’re going to knock them out in Hollywood.”

“You’re just being noble. You’re leaving me, that’s what you’re doing. You think I’m too young. It’s that old thing about not being Jewish.…” She knew she was throwing out wild claims; she couldn’t help herself.

“It’s none of that, and I think you know it.”

“Then let’s get married, if you insist on doing this crazy thing.”

“Wow, you’re proposing to me? How many men have had that particular flattery?” He smiled, trying to make it a tease.

“I mean it.”

Andy sobered, gazing at her thoughtfully. “Julie …” He paused. “Okay, maybe you won’t understand. I’ve thought the same thing. But I can’t do that to you. I can’t tie you down. I don’t know what happens when I get to England; I’m not writing the script from here. Once I go over there, I’m throwing myself into fighting the Germans any way I can.”

“What if I want to be tied down?”

He slowly shook his head. “You’re different. You don’t want that, whether you know it right now or not.”

“Quit telling me what I think.”

“Well, here’s what I think. I don’t want to settle for being just your first husband.”

Julie dropped her head into her hands. He was making too much sense, and, yes, she knew that, too. She dug deep into her heart. Was she actually surprised? Hadn’t she been waiting for this hammer to fall?

She lifted her head and, controlling her voice, said, “Andy, I can’t stop you. I need to know one thing. Do you love me?”

“You know I do.”

“Will you come back?”

“If you want me. If you haven’t run off with some sexy version of Abe Goldman.”

“When? What happens to the job Selznick is offering you?”

“I told him what I was thinking about this morning. He understood. Surprised, though. Said he would try to get me something good when I come back.”

Well, she would have to settle for that. She leaned close, curling as tightly as she could into his arms, telling herself to see clearly, accept what she couldn’t change. They fell back onto the pillows, holding each other, burrowed together, and she thought of what Scarlett had finally realized about Ashley, how she had “put that suit on him and made him wear it whether it fitted him or not.” She wouldn’t do that to Andy. He was gone from her—and from Hollywood—the moment he decided what would truly ease his soul, and if she tried to force anything else, she would destroy all of what was real. The morning sun began to wash through their glamorous suite, touching on the fruit basket wrapped in red cellophane and the gorgeous long-stemmed roses delivered to their door just before the premiere last night, and even kissing lightly the pieces of chocolate wrapped in silver foil left on their pillows, promising—falsely—a gentle day.