four

Almost an hour later, the theater lights dimmed, and the orchestra began to play. Attendees settled into their seats. Ushers signaled for quiet. Cameramen readied themselves. From above, a disembodied voice called out, “Live from the Dolby Theater, it’s the Oscars! Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome your host, Ellen DeGeneres!”

Wearing a fitted velvet tuxedo, Ellen strode across the stage. With a merry smile she greeted the cheering crowd in the auditorium. “Thank you!” she said. “Thank you very much. Before we get started, I want to say that you should think of yourselves as winners.” She paused. “Not everyone, but all of you that have won before should.”

The crowd laughed and settled in for the show. An hour later, the lull of the shorts, documentaries, and technical categories had taken its toll. Nigel was slumped low in his seat, his eyes at half-mast. My attempts to rouse him were ignored. When the Oscar for Best Actress was about to be announced, I gave him one last nudge. “Nigel! Wake up!” I hissed.

Nigel peeled one eye open and asked, “Is it over yet?”

“No, but they are about to announce Best Actress. Don’t you want to watch?”

“You watch for me and tell me what happens,” he said, closing his eye again.

I poked him again. “Why did you bother to come if you don’t even watch?”

Nigel crossed his arms across his chest, his eyes still closed. “Because, someone told me there was an open bar this year.”

“You really need to let that go. I said I was sorry.”

“And I told you that I’m sleeping. Now, stop talking. You’re interrupting me.”

I gave up and focused again on the show. Anne Hathaway and Steve Carell were bantering as they read the nominees.

Among this year’s candidates was Christina Franklin, the actress who ultimately portrayed the lead in A Winter’s Night. Christina won her first Oscar for that role. In her acceptance speech, she called the win a bittersweet one and tearfully dedicated it to Melanie’s memory. In the years after, she won three more Oscars and always spoke fondly of Melanie. Tonight she was up for her role in the movie The Morning Came Early. Her portrayal of a French seamstress trying to help Jews escape a Germany-occupied France during World War II had been universally praised by the critics and was a crowd favorite to win.

“And the winner is …” Anne Hathaway paused to open the envelope. After a quick glance, she happily called out, “Christina Franklin!”

The crowd burst into enthusiastic applause. Even the other nominees appeared genuinely happy for her. I pointed this out to Nigel, but he only kept his eyes closed and said, “They weren’t nominated for Best Actress for nothing.”

Christina gracefully made her way to the podium, stopping to hug a few friends on the way. The lights reflected off the silver beading of her gown, shimmering across every dip and curve. Making her way onto the stage, she humbly accepted the statue, and then turned to face the audience. In many ways there was little difference between the nineteen-year-old-girl who first rose to this podium twenty years earlier and the thirty-nine-year-old woman who stood here now. She was tall and lithe. Although it was pulled back tonight, her hair was as it had always been; a tawny mane of riotous curls. Her waiflike face was still youthful. Her enormous green eyes, famous for their ability to subtly convey a gamut of emotions, now sparkled joyfully.

“Thank you so much for this,” she said in a soft voice, tilting her head to indicate the golden statue. Appearing for a moment at a loss for words, she reached up to smooth her hair before continuing. “There are so many people who made this possible,” she said. “First, I want to thank my agent, Barbara Pooler, who convinced me to take this role. She is simply a force of nature. I suspect I will be hearing ‘I told you so,’ for a very long time.” The audience laughed. “And, of course,” Christina continued, “many thanks to the entire cast and crew of The Morning Came Early. You made the entire experience a wonderful one. To our director, Barry Meagher. Barry, where are you?” She sought him out in the crowd, her face softening when she found him. Barry Meagher was a tall, thin man with thick silver hair. His intense black eyes peered out at the world from under absurdly bushy eyebrows. A smile now split his craggy face, and he blew her an extravagant kiss. Christina grinned, pretended to catch it and blow it back. “Barry, it was truly a joy to work with you again,” she said. “You must be my good luck charm. I won my first Oscar working with you on A Winter’s Night. You always bring out the best in us. Without you, this never would have happened,” she added gesturing to the Oscar. “And I hope you are called up here in a little bit to get yours for Best Director.” She glanced around the room and, with a sly wink, quickly added, “No offense meant to the other nominees, of course.” The crowed laughed good-naturedly. Christina paused and took a deep breath. “Finally, I’d like to thank my co-star and old friend, John Cummings.”

There was a faint gasp from the audience. Next to me, Nigel opened his eyes and sat up in his seat. “Well, this should be good,” he whispered.

Fastening her eyes on John, Christina continued, her voice soft. “Lord knows we’ve had our ups and downs, John, but I want you to know that I think you are one of the best actors out there today. You make everyone around you look good. I feel truly blessed to have been able to work with you again.”

Around us, people craned their necks to gage not only John’s reaction to this speech, but also that of the young woman’s sitting next to him.

Neither disappointed.

John’s eyes locked on Christina’s with an expression of pride tinged with sadness. He bowed his dark head in acknowledgement of Christina’s words before he, like their director, blew her a kiss. His gesture, however, had a far more intimate feel. As before, Christina pretended to catch the kiss. However, this time she did not return it. Instead, she balled her hand into a fist and held it close to her chest. “I think I’ll hang on to this one for old time’s sake,” she said with a small smile.

The reaction of the woman next to John, Jules Dixon, was Hollywood drama at its finest. Her full, pink lips stretched into a tight smile across her round, kewpie doll face. Grabbing John’s hand, she gave it a tight squeeze before leaning over into his seat and placing a possessive kiss on his cheek. John barely acknowledged the gesture. His gaze remained locked on Christina’s.

From the podium, Christina gently kissed her still-balled hand before smiling her thanks again to the crowd and gracefully making her way off stage.

“Now, that is what I call great acting,” said Nigel with a grin.

I looked over to where John and Jules sat. His face was unreadable. The same could not be said for Jules. She stared straight ahead, her eyes bright with anger; the brittle smile on her face fooling no one.