A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Seventy-Four

June, 1921

"Action!"

The mob surged after its prey, outraged and shouting, fists pumping the air. Rose was nearly bowled over by an overenthusiastic male extra who somehow always seemed to get too close to her—whether by design or by accident she did not know. She'd certainly bear the scars from shooting this scene if she wasn't careful.

They cornered their quarry, the film's star, against a wall, and Rose was jostled to the front. An apron-wearing grocer brandishing a broom knocked her wide-brimmed hat to the ground; she was momentarily caught off guard, but the cameras kept rolling. She covered herself by faking a gasp, eyes bulging, hands to her bare head, the tightly pinned chignon coming loose. Her exaggerated actions were met with a twinkle of approval in the eyes of the star before she snatched the broom and proceeded to beat the living daylights out of him. He cringed, holding out his hands to ward off the blows, as the others surrounded him, kicking, punching, and yelling.

Moments later, he crawled out from under their feet, placed a hat at a jaunty angle astride his head, and strode off in a hurry without looking back...seemingly unaware that the hat he was wearing was Rose's.

"—and cut! That's a wrap for today, guys and gals."

"You don't want another take?" Rose asked the director, one Buster Keaton, once she could get him alone. She was referring to the matter in which she lost her hat, which was unintentional.

"You kidding me? You had us all in stitches!" He squeezed her arm. "Keep it up."

The leading man, Fatty Arbuckle, had nothing but compliments as well. "You're a star, Red. People are gonna sit up and take notice, you watch."

She was floating. Buster Keaton was directing her in a movie. Fatty Arbuckle called her a star. Her dressing room was a closet she shared with two other actresses, but she, Rose Dawson, would one day see her name on a marquee again—and not just in New York.

On her way to said dressing room she nearly collided, again, with the annoying little man who always managed to bump into her during every take of that mob scene. She smiled politely and attempted to keep walking but he stood in her way.

"You were really good today. Everyone's talking about it."

She blushed in spite of herself. "Thank you—" She couldn't remember his name.

"It's Marty," he finished for her. "Hey listen, cutie, seeing as how we're done for the day, whataya say we go to the grill and grab us some chow?"

"Well—ah—Sebastian, hi!" Her prince had arrived in the nick of time. She hugged him, a little too tightly, and made speedy introductions. "Marty, this is my fiancé, Sebastian."

Marty's face fell. Sebastian offered his hand, but the other man was in no mood to be cordial. He turned to Rose, a mean glint in his eyes. "You might pretend that hat coming off was your idea, but I know for a fact that Keaton paid that guy ten bucks to knock it off. Have a nice evening."

They watched him go, puzzled, and Rose couldn't hold back the laughter. "Who was that?" Sebastian asked her.

"One of my closest friends on the set," she responded. "Let's get dinner. I'm starving."

They decided to eat at the delicatessen on the Paramount lot, rather than at the grill, where Marty and probably most of the rest of the cast and crew had gone. Rose didn't expect to see anyone she recognized in the deli this late in the day, and nearly choked when Gloria Swanson glided in without her usual bevy of attendants. The screen goddess ordered her chicken salad on rye and was gone before either Rose or Sebastian could utter a word.

"You can stick your eyes back in your head now, Rose," he teased her.

"I'll never get used to this," she said, shaking her head. She proceeded to relay to him all the compliments she'd received, but he appeared distracted.

"Is something wrong?" she asked finally.

"What, wrong? I'm getting married in three months to a woman I thought I'd lost forever." He gently took her hands and kissed them. "Nothing's wrong."

They would be wed in September. The reaction to their announcement, made at breakfast the morning following Sebastian's proposal, was mixed. Max had clapped Sebastian on the back, congratulating him profusely; he'd always thought highly of Rose and was thrilled at the news. Angelica, on the other hand, graciously accepted Rose's request for her to serve as matron of honor and said nothing else. Elvira was not so mannerly, calling the engagement a farce and declaring that she wished she'd stayed in Germany, at which point her son informed her that she could still return at any time; he'd be happy to foot the bill. She hadn't taken him up on his offer.

Not ready to be discouraged, Rose plunged into wedding preparations, visiting bridal shops and the priest at St. Joseph's, the chapel where Fritz was memorialized. The guest list would be short, as she didn't expect any of her friends from back East to be able to attend, but she set about writing flowery letters--to Vera, who'd just celebrated her own nuptials and was settling into her new home in Washington, D.C.; to the Scotts—Victoria didn't respond but Josephine wrote back, begging to be invited; to Meg, who'd recently had another daughter and wouldn't have come anyway, but still sent warm regards; and to Miss Yvette and Marie, whom she'd been trying to convince to come out West for a year, but they hadn't, not even to see their kin in San Francisco. Rose suspected they never would. But India and Bill, to her delight, responded that they most certainly would like to come down for the ceremony.

The only people left to tell were her so-called family. She had no idea how the Calverts would react, and wasn't looking forward to sharing the news. She rarely even saw Anderson anymore and couldn't tell who was avoiding whom.

As if reading her mind, Sebastian asked her, "Are you going to tell your cousins on the Fourth?"

She nodded; she'd been invited to a family barbecue at Laurel Manor.

"You know," he said, fixing his eyes upon hers, "he's going to find out sooner or later."

She nodded again, and quickly changed the subject. "How was work today?"

Too late, she realized that she'd made a mistake. He pulled away from her; a quick flash of irritation crossed his features. "The same. Dull, pointless. You want the bloody details? Oh, I'm sorry. I know you're living your dream and I don't want to spoil the illusion."

"Sebastian—"

"These people are all businessmen," he ranted. "They know nothing about creativity. All they care about is profits."

"It is a business, Sebastian. They need to make money."

His job was called development, a fancy title for the tedious process of finding scripts, taking them apart and then reassembling them into product the studio executives found palatable. Sebastian wanted to direct. It was, to say the least, frustrating for him. On the drive home—in what she'd come to know as her Daimler Benz, no matter how easily he had reclaimed it—Sebastian continued to sulk and Rose wondered how the evening had gone sour so quickly, though their conversation was only part of a pattern she should have recognized. Each and every time they spoke of her career, eventually the conversation wound its way back to his job and the sacrifice he made in accepting it. He believed he was selling himself short for a steady paycheck. It didn't help to remind him that he had turned up his nose at joining a local vaudeville company because the pay was far too low for someone with New York theater credits.

Nor did it help to remind him that, with the amount of work she'd been getting lately, she could probably pay her own way and his, too. She had taken him up on his suggestion to phone Buster Keaton and it paid off in spades. Keaton invited her to lunch and immediately cast her in The Paleface, a comedy short about a white man who was almost killed after wandering onto an Indian reservation, only to end up joining the tribe. Rose's squaw was visible for all of five seconds, though it hardly mattered. Keaton, whom she'd started to see as her guardian angel, had cleverly begun dropping her name in Hollywood's inner circles as the next It Girl, and set about proving it by giving her the current featured role. After the wedding, she'd begin working on another comedy.

Oddly enough, she couldn't decide which she was looking forward to more.

Rose was out of the car and halfway to the door by the time Sebastian caught up with her. "Sweetheart?" She waited. "I was rude," he apologized.

Her smile felt forced. "You had a difficult day. It'll get better."

"You have too much faith in me," he said, and kissed her forehead.

*****

It was ninety-four degrees in the shade, and everyone at Laurel Manor was in the pool except Rose and Helene. The latter sprawled in a chaise feigning sleep, a copy of one of the trades lying unread in her lap. Rose still had not forgiven her for the Elias Crawford fiasco and didn't care whether Helene engaged her in conversation or not, but it meant spending nearly an hour sitting by herself, a virgin piña colada in hand, not even getting her toes wet.

A sudden splash and a squeal, and Helene was on her feet, spitting curses at her husband. Rose, watching them, didn't see Lizzy climb out of the water and take a seat at the table beside her.

"Goodness, you haven't moved from that spot since you got here," the older woman said, carefully removing her bathing cap. "I hope you're not too uncomfortable. You look to be the type who burns easily."

Rose had taken precautions; though without a bathing suit she was overdressed for the occasion, she wore a hat and draped a towel about her exposed arms. The umbrella over the table provided some shade. Lizzy, however, wasn't convinced.

"The water is invigorating," she pointed out. "I feel a good ten years younger."

"You're an excellent swimmer."

"Why, thank you. What about you? Can't you swim?"

A few yards away, Terry lifted Helene effortlessly, and as she kicked and slapped at him with little effect, tossed her into the pool. Anderson applauded, then paddled quickly to the shallow end to escape his sister's wrath.

"What happened to your young man?" Lizzy asked. She was the first to mention Sebastian's absence, though the others surely noticed. None of them save Anderson had ever seen him, and Lizzy was likely boiling over with curiosity about the interloper who'd taken Rose's attention away from her son.

"He wasn't feeling well," Rose lied. Sebastian didn't want to come.

"I'm sorry to hear that, I was hoping to meet him. Anderson told us the whole story. Coming back from the dead, quite a feat."

"It was rather shocking."

"I'd say. But you're recovering nicely. Will he remain in Los Angeles permanently? I'll admit, California can be addictive. I never thought we'd stay out here this long."

This conversation was stifling. Rose badly needed for Lizzy to shut up, but could only nod her head like a puppet and clench her glass tighter and tighter. Now Helene chased Terry around the pool, while her brother joined Rose and Lizzy and poured himself a glass of the frothy concoction from a pitcher. No servants today; they had the holiday off.

"So did your friend find employment yet?" Lizzy inquired.

"Yes, at Paramount."

"You hear that, darling?" Lizzy asked Anderson.

"I heard," he said, not so keen on discussing Sebastian either. His mother didn't care. "Who does he work for? Maybe Helene knows—"

"Helene doesn't work for Paramount anymore, Mother," Anderson interjected, a bit too sharply.

"So, she can't still associate with anyone there? Honestly, I don't understand how these studios work. You have to sign your life away before they'll allow you to set foot on the lot, then they toss you aside when they're tired of you. You two could learn something from Terry."

"Really, Mother? How interesting that you never said that when our father was alive."

"I'm getting married," Rose blurted.

"I'm just saying," Lizzy continued, ignoring Anderson's jab at her, "your brother-in-law let Zukor and all those other clowns know from the start that he was the one doing them a favor. The actors bring in the money."

Anderson stared at Rose as if she'd grown another head. "You're doing what?"

"The wedding's in September," she said. "Sebastian and I would like it very much if you would come." Now Lizzy had finally stopped talking; Rose plunged ahead. "I'll have the invitations in the mail in two weeks."

"Why that’s—that’s wonderful, dear!" She didn't sound too sure of that, but Lizzy leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Do you need any help with anything?"

"You couldn't tell us sooner?" Anderson demanded.

"Tell us what?" Terry and Helene had joined them and he was eager to get in on the gossip. Helene just wanted something to drink.

"Rose is getting married," Lizzy announced.

Terry was excited for her, much more so than the others. Anderson excused himself and left the table. Rose watched his retreating back with a heavy sense of loss that she couldn't have articulated.

"So, where's your ring?" Helene asked. At her mother's admonishment, she defended herself: "The guy came all this way to win her back; surely he bought her a diamond to show off to her relations."

Rose refused to acknowledge the spite in the comment, saying that she and Sebastian made a mutual decision to keep their expenses to a minimum, as they'd both only recently begun working again. She omitted that she couldn't recall what happened to the engagement ring he bought her the first time around. She hadn't seen it since leaving Chippewa Falls.

When Lizzy took a powder room break, Rose saw her chance to escape and went in search of Anderson, whom she found on the hillside overlooking the Valley. He heard her approach but refused to look at her.

"I'm sorry," she spoke. "I should have said something—"

"Why are you apologizing? You're going to be with the man you love."

"This has nothing to do with you, Anderson. I care about you."

"But you never stopped loving him. Had he not disappeared for all those years, you would've been married a long time ago. You never would have met me."

That, unfortunately, was true. Rose had nothing more to say.

"I wish you the best of luck, Rose," Anderson said, finally meeting her eyes. His betrayed none of the emotion he surely felt, and his voice was flat. "I want nothing but happiness for you."

In that moment he reminded her again of someone else, but instead of feeling nostalgic or just sorry for herself, Rose realized she was angry. He was leaving her there, choosing not to fight for her, and she wanted to chase him and force him to admit how he really felt, but she had the good sense not to follow him again. It was a decision she would regret.

By the time she returned to the patio, Anderson had gone. Terry and Helene had laid out an appetizing spread of grilled steaks, salads, and apple pie from one of their favorite restaurants, and Rose felt her mouth watering in spite of herself. Lizzy was discussing a letter she received from her sister. It seemed Luther had cancer, something he had only recently disclosed to Kitty for obvious reasons, though she didn't comprehend the finality of it. Lizzy wanted to see him one last time before he died.

This would probably go down in history as one of the worst Fourth of Julys Rose had ever experienced, and the day wasn't over yet. Sebastian wasn't in when she got home. Elvira informed her that he'd gone to a picnic with an acquaintance from work—this after having turned down Rose's invite.

"You must see to Angelica," Elvira pleaded, wringing her hands.

"What's wrong with her now?" Rose grumbled.

"It was that worthless Hurensohn. He left her."

"Max left? For good?"

"For good, yes. He told her he was tired of her nagging and spending all his money and he's not coming back. Left his wife and helpless baby." She uttered more epithets in German.

Rose found Angelica crumbled on the floor in her bedroom, surrounded by piles of clothing, toiletries, and phonograph records. One of the closets stood nearly empty. It seemed Max had packed in a hurry, and Angelica had been eager to help him along. Li'l Max was probably napping in his nursery. Rose could only hope he didn't witness any of the carnage.

She sank to her knees and placed her arms around her friend. Angelica raised her head; her face was blotchy and tear-stained. "He's gone, Rose."

"I know."

"I don't have any money," Angelica whimpered. "I don't have a job. I don't know how to get a job."

"It'll be all right, honey. I'll help you. It'll be all right."

"I can't even afford a train ticket to New York. I can't feed my baby. Rose, what am I going to do?"

Chapter Seventy-Five
Stories