A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Seventy-Three

Rated R for Content

Of course, Elvira refused to leave without her son.

Rose was able to derive some satisfaction from the idea that Sebastian had made plans that didn't include the domineering old bag, whose very presence in the house had begun to drain everyone emotionally. But this sense of evening the score was to be short-lived. Sebastian tried to convince his mother to take the train back to New York with the others—had even lied and told her he would rejoin her in Germany in due time, once he straightened everything out with the government—and still she hadn't packed a single item the night before the departure date. Their raised voices could be heard through the closed door of her room and downstairs, where everyone tried their best to ignore the argument without success. Angelica finally asked Hans to drive her and the baby to her own house, where they'd spend one last night before moving in with Rose.

After they'd left, Catherine gave Rose a long hug good night and retired early. Anna put on a pot of tea, opened a box of exquisite chocolates which had been a gift from Elvira, and she and Rose talked on the sofa, the last piece of furniture left in the parlor.

"You can still come with us, you know," Anna offered for perhaps the tenth time in the past week, placing a hand over Rose's.

"I know. Thank you. But this is where I need to be right now."

"Because of your family. I understand. But I'm worried about you, darling. What will you do—" And she raised her eyes to the ceiling. "--about him? He's staying here to win you back, you know."

Rose shook her head. "We haven't talked about that. It's been a long time."

"My Fritz warned Angelica once, years ago, about him," Anna said after some hesitation. "He'd known Elvira since they were not much more than children. She was always a flighty, thoughtless woman and broke many a heart in her day. Including his. Poor Sebastian was raised by his father, but he'd inherited his mother's charm. Fritz saw what he was capable of right away. Sebastian doesn't like it here, I can tell. Not enough excitement. He's staying for a reason, and that reason is you. Be careful, my dear."

It was the most Anna had ever said to Rose at one time. Rose anticipated more, but the fight upstairs abruptly ceased and Elvira emerged the victor, announcing that she would extend her holiday in Los Angeles; the warm, dry climate agreed with her.

Sebastian looked furious.

Elvira detested good-byes, so she and Sebastian didn't accompany the others to Union Station downtown in the morning. There was no fanfare nor finery this time; Anna, Hans, and Catherine all wore black and all were silent during the ride. At the last minute, Angelica clung to her mother and bawled like a baby. In Rose's arms, L’il Max began to scream.

Angelica carried on all the way back to the house, where she ran to the master bedroom—now hers and Max’s—and slammed the door. Rose, still holding the infant, attempted to give him his bottle, which he threw to the floor. Appearing out of nowhere, Elvira stooped to pick it up.

"Spoiled little boy," she clucked, reaching for him. Rose gladly handed him over. "Your papa will be home soon. Max is moving their belongings here," she told Rose. "Sebastian is helping. Why don't you get started on luncheon, dear? I'm sure the men will be hungry."

"Isn't the housekeeper here?"

"I'm afraid not. I dismissed her this morning."

"You what?"

"Angelica and her young man have no jobs, and neither do you. You can't possibly afford a maid. There are two strong young women in this house. You are not above a little cooking and cleaning."

There's three women in this house, Rose thought, but she headed for the kitchen without a word, vowing to herself that she'd find a way to be rid of this witch if it meant drugging her and planting her on the train. Elvira called out to her as if she'd forgotten something.

"A gentleman phoned for you, a Thomas, Travis Matthews, something or other."

"Terrence Masterson?"

Elvira brightened. "Yes. Now see, you don't need a housekeeper. You have me to answer the phone."

"I don't suppose Mr. Masterson left his number?" Rose asked.

"Oh— " Elvira floundered.

"It's all right. I have it."

Rose shut the parlor door to ensure she would not be overheard. Terry's voice buoyed her spirits more than he'd know.

"How ya doin', baby doll?"

"I've been better. Please tell me you have good news."

"I have great news," he said. "Can you be at the studio first thing tomorrow morning?"

*****

The studio was Universal Pictures and first thing turned out to be the ungodly hour of six AM. Located across the Cahuenga Pass canyon from Hollywood, the lot was a converted farm situated atop a steep hill with breathtaking mountain views in all directions. At the main gate, Rose gave her name to a sleepy guard in a booth, who handed her a visitor's pass and a map and pointed her in the direction of a crowded parking lot.

It appeared to be the norm for employees of the studio to be up and working by the crack of dawn. While searching for Stage 3, Rose was nearly struck in the head by a ladder borne by two construction workers. She stepped in the street to avoid them and was nearly run over by a golf cart.

"Watch out, miss!" someone called out to her. She spun around, ready to give the man a piece of her tired mind—and saw it was only Terry. He'd offered to wait for her at the gate but apparently had forgotten. She wanted to hug him.

"Lord, am I glad to see you! I am so nervous. Look at my hands. They're shaking!"

Terry grasped her hands, pulled them slowly to his lips, and kissed each one in turn. "They're cold. Just a hint for tomorrow, wear gloves. It's chilly out here in the morning."

"You're sure I'll be here tomorrow?"

"Why wouldn't you be? You're a shoo-in. Now, hurry up. You've got three minutes. Come see me when you're done." He told her where to find his trailer. "Break a leg," he called over his shoulder as he left her. A cluster of star-struck girls nearby gawked and giggled.

By some miracle, Rose found Stage 3 in a warehouse huge enough to hold an airplane. Some seventy to eighty young women milled about, a few chattering anxiously, but most just surreptitiously eyeing the competition. They were all here for a cattle call for bit parts in Terrence Masterson's next western. Roughly half would get a callback to audition again the next day. Only four would be selected for coveted roles as saloon girls. One hundred dollars pay for a few seconds onscreen in a two-reeler. Not bad at all.

A door slammed and the room quieted as a tall woman with a businesslike demeanor and a clipboard entered, followed closely by a much older and shorter man who was trying desperately to match her pace. One of the hopeful standing near Rose quickly dropped a cigarette to the floor and ground it out with the heel of a shoe.

"Okay," she muttered. "Let's get this show on the road."

Three hours later, after having filled out a questionnaire and then waited for what seemed like days for a very brief turn on the stage before the casting agents—whose bored, impassive expressions never changed—Rose located Terry's trailer on the lot. It was considerably larger than any of the other trailers; its accoutrements more luxurious. His name was etched inside a gold star on its door. He was at the height of his career.

Once, Anderson had let down his guard and spoke of his and Helene's fight to be free of their father's control, a struggle that became Terry's as well. While Anderson had eventually succumbed to his father's wishes and signed on with Metro-Goldwyn, where Andrew had a lucrative production deal, Helene steadfastly refused and joined the Paramount family instead. She'd recently parted company with them after it became apparent she'd always play second fiddle to the likes of Mary Pickford, and signed on with Fox Film Corporation...only to play second fiddle to Theda Bara. Since her father's death, she'd barely worked at all.

Terry, however, had stubbornly remained independent, and this seemed to work to his advantage. He worked for whomever made the best offer. Of course, he was younger than Helene, and a man.

The star himself was currently enjoying a breakfast break, sampling bagels with cream cheese and lox, croissants, and freshly squeezed orange juice, courtesy of the craft services table on the set. He'd had to fend off a dozen more female admirers with promises that he'd sign autographs later. Rose peered at them from behind drawn curtains in the kitchen.

Terry offered her a croissant lathered in blueberry jam; she politely refused. "I can't even think about food."

"Hey, it's over," he soothed her. "‘Til tomorrow, of course."

"You're so certain I'm coming back tomorrow. Terry, they asked me for a head shot and I didn't even have one!"

"Really? I can remedy that. I know the best photographer in the business. Rafe can set up the appointment."

"It's too late now. I came to my first big audition unprepared."

"Would you cheer up, please?" Terry finished off his juice, tossed the cup in the trash, and pecked her on the cheek. "You're starting to sound depressing. See you tomorrow."

She got the callback. And this time the casting agents smiled at her.

*****

"I've never worked with Terrence Masterson. What's he like? Is he as pretty in person as he is onscreen?"

"Anderson!" Rose scolded.

He laughed. "I'm sorry. I couldn't resist. He's such a big star these days, I have to keep up with him through the papers just like everyone else."

They were having coffee at a small café not far from her house after a grueling day's work, her second and final day on the set of The Outlaws. Two days for three scenes. Her morning had begun at five this time, so she could be heavily made up and stuffed into a Victorian-era costume complete with a corset, a torture device she hadn't experienced since she was seventeen. Her big scene, when she carried a tray of drinks to a table of gamblers, required seven takes—and not a one was her fault.

"Welcome to my world," Anderson told her between glances at his watch. He had his own set to report back to.

Rose had what was left of the day to herself, her scenes having wrapped hours earlier. She'd originally asked him to dinner, but as always, he had plans.

"I promised my mother I'd take her out to dinner," he'd said. "It's the anniversary, you know, my father—"

"Oh, that's right. I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize. I'm not sorry." As if he regretted the words, he quickly changed the subject to his work. They'd avoided any mention of Sebastian; had never, in fact, discussed him at all the few times they'd seen each other lately. She supposed she should be grateful Anderson wanted to see her at all.

The house was blissfully quiet. Max had caved in to his wife's demands and taken on double shifts at the Goodyear plant in the southern part of the city. On his infrequent days off, he was auditioning. They rarely saw him. Even L’il Max didn't miss him.

Rose climbed the stairs to her bedroom wearily, slipped out of her heels, and stretched out on the bed, savoring the warmth of the down coverlet. In moments, she was dozing. When she first heard the footsteps approaching and heard him clear his throat, she thought it was a dream.

"Rose?"

"Mmm..."

"Sorry," Sebastian said. "I didn't know you were asleep." The footsteps began their retreat. Rose hastily opened her eyes and rolled to her feet.

"Wait! I'm awake, just resting, that's all."

He grinned. "You must be exhausted. I think I'd just gotten to sleep when I heard you leave this morning." He sat on the bed beside her, so close their knees nearly touched. "So, tell me about it."

She described her day for him in detail, carefully weeding out her visits to Terry's trailer and the coffee shop afterwards. Sebastian was impressed, a rarity.

"So, what are you going to do next?" he asked.

"Next? I haven't the slightest." She stood and wandered over to the vanity, removing the clips that held her hair tightly in place, and idly began to brush with long, even strokes. His eyes never left her.

"What? Your famous cousins couldn't do anything more for you?"

"Well, Terry is arranging an appointment with a photographer so I can get head shots made...and then, I don't know, the girl from the casting agency gave me a list—"

"Forgive me for saying this, but for someone so gung-ho about a film career, you're sure going about it carelessly."

Rose turned to face him, hands on hips. "It's tougher than I thought, Sebastian. Like you said, I'm competing with half of Los Angeles. What would you have me do?"

"Use all of your resources. Pull out all the stops. Phone that Keaton fellow, take him up on his lunch offer."

"Buster? Surely he doesn't have time—"

"And there's me," he said. "Remember, I'll be working at a studio now. I'll get to know people who can help you."

"I can't ask you to do me any favors."

"Of course you can." He was on his feet, closing the distance between them. "You can ask me for anything." Before she even realized what he was doing, his lips were pressing against hers, soft and inviting, his arms circling her waist. The hairbrush slid from her hand to the dresser.

His mouth traced the outline of her throat. "Almost four years, Rose. Four years without the sight or scent of you, four years without this..."

Less than three years without sex for her, she thought. She'd had Winston in New York, and to a lesser extent, Anderson.

He'd worked his hands around her neck, was unclasping the delicate gold chain she wore.

"Your mother," she murmured. "Angelica. They could be home at any time."

"They took the baby shopping. You know Angelica. They'll be gone until dinnertime."

He undid the zipper on her dress, marveling aloud at how much simpler it was to undress a woman these days; the garment began to slide, exposing her bare shoulders, then her breasts. She had worn no brassiere. He tasted each nipple in turn, leaving them rough and alert. With some fumbling, she loosened the buttons of his shirt.

Having lost most of their clothing, they fell onto her bed with little restraint, holding onto each other for dear life. She touched every inch of his body, reacquainting herself with what she'd thought was long gone. Part of her been waiting for this—expecting it—for weeks, and she wasn't disappointed.

After the second orgasm, one that rocked them both, he asked her to marry him. She was still catching her breath and thought she hadn't heard him correctly until he repeated the question, clasping her face in his hands, looking her in the eyes.

"Yes," she said. "Yes."

Chapter Seventy-Four
Stories