Chapter 2
Hollywood, California
The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel glittered that evening as almost three hundred guests sat at banquet tables.
Potted flowering trees dotted the large ballroom, and paper lanterns hung from the ceiling.
Laughter and conversation lifted over the sound of silverware clinking against fine china.
Some of Hollywood’s biggest stars were present, wearing their diamonds and furs.
Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplin, Lionel Barrymore, Gloria Swanson, and others visited over the simple meal with ease.
“You should try to smile, Ally,” Mama said as she sat next to me, cutting into her broiled chicken on toast. “People might think you’re sore for not winning the Academy Award for Best Actress.”
I glanced at the winner, Janet Gaynor, who sat at the end of our banquet table, laughing and joking with Clark Gable.
The nominees for the first Academy Awards, including me, had been notified over six months ago, and the winners were announced in May.
The banquet was being held to honor them as they received their golden statues tonight.
“I’m not even thinking about the award,” I told her, picking at my string beans. “Janet deserves it.”
“You’ve been quiet all day.” Mama turned to me, offering her full attention.
Her name was Tacy Howlett Bennett, and she had been a time-crosser but lost her other path in Boston in 1668, where she had been hung for sharing her Quaker beliefs.
She had met my papa, Grant Bennett, when she came to California in this path in 1888.
Papa had also been a time-crosser, with a second path in 1408, but had given it up for Mama.
In 1910, they had started Bennett Studios and watched it prosper beyond their wildest dreams.
But that was then. Almost twenty years later, with the advent of talking films and large studios, everything they had worked for was on the brink of ruin.
Louis B. Mayer, the mastermind behind the Academy Awards, and one of the cofounders of the massive Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios, walked among the tables to visit with each of the guests. The noise in the room was so loud, I had to lean close to Mama to speak, but it offered us some privacy.
“We reached San Francisco yesterday,” I said, for her ears alone. “But we have no money, and the only place I could find was a hotel in Sydney Town, if you can call it a hotel. I didn’t realize it was owned by Sam and Bess Kendal.”
Her blue eyes widened. “Sam Ken—from the movie?”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure how accurate the movie was.
It was a silent film, very dramatic and dark.
It had featured a young man named Cole Goodman, who had come to San Francisco like thousands of other unsuspecting gold seekers.
And, like many of them, he’d been corrupted by the evils of gambling and alcohol.
What little he’d found in the goldfields he’d lost in San Francisco to people who had come to California to mine the miners.
But his greatest tragedy was falling in love with Bess Kendal, Sam’s wife.
And when he tried to save her from a loveless and abusive marriage, Sam trapped Cole inside a building and set it on fire.
Bess was able to save Cole but lost her life in the process, and Cole had gone on to write about his experience.
It was the first great San Francisco fire that ravaged the city.
The movie had been well received, and the star of the show, Spencer Hayes, had been nominated for an Academy Award because of it.
“You need to get out of there, Ally.” Mama set down her fork. “It’s far too dangerous—and, if I’m not mistaken, the first San Francisco fire happened sometime in August 1849.”
“Father is still unconscious,” I told her quietly in protest. “I sent for a doctor, but the man knew less than I did about malarial fever. I can’t move Father, even if I want to. Bess gave Hazel and me a pallet in the kitchen, and she has her guard watching over us.”
“What about Sam?”
I shrugged. He hadn’t come in before we fell asleep. “Bess and her son sleep in a bedroom adjacent to the kitchen, and she kept the door open in case Hazel or I needed help.”
Mama put her hand on my arm. I was wearing a simple black, sleeveless evening gown with layers of long pearl necklaces, and my short blond hair was bobbed, with marcel waves framing my face.
I looked the same in both paths—I had one conscious mind and two identical bodies—but my fashion choices and hairstyles were vastly different.
What happened to one of my bodies didn’t affect the other one.
It was cool in the Roosevelt Hotel, but my long white gloves covered most of my forearms and offered a little warmth. Mama’s touch was light but fervent. “It’s not safe for you in Sydney Town. You must leave as soon as you can.”
“I plan to, but Father needs to get well. I’m running out of time there, and I need to get him to Nevada City by the end of September.”
“It was a foolhardy plan to begin with.” Mama shook her head in disapproval. “We’re not supposed to knowingly change history. If we do, we forfeit the path we try to change.”
“I won’t change history,” I assured her, all too familiar with the time-crossing rule I’d heard my whole life. “The men who are supposed to find the gold will still find it, but I’ll have Father close at hand so he can be one of the first to prospect the river afterward.”
“Ally.” Mama sighed as she gave me a look. She’d never been in favor of my plan, but time-crossing was a hard existence. Would God really frown on me using it to help the people I loved?
“It’s too late now,” Mama said. “You must make the best of things.”
Mr. Mayer made his way toward the front of the room to take the stage, so Mama removed her hand, but she wasn’t finished. “I’m worried for you, but tonight is meant to be a celebration for all the hard work you’ve done. I don’t want it ruined by worries about your other life.”
I tried to force my thoughts away from 1849, but it wasn’t easy.
My older sister, Victoria, sat across the table from me in a beautiful green evening gown, next to Papa, who wore a tuxedo.
Vicky watched Mama and me closely, though I didn’t see concern in her gaze.
She’d always been jealous of my time-crossing abilities because she hadn’t been given the gift.
Not all children born of time-crossers inherited it, only those with the sunburst birthmark on either their chest or the back of their head.
I’d inherited Papa’s mark. It sat just above my hairline and wasn’t noticeable to others.
It meant that each night when I fell asleep in 1929, I woke up in 1849.
And when I went to sleep in 1849, I woke up in 1929.
Time stood still while my consciousness was away.
Vicky hadn’t learned about our time-crossing until she was about ten and I had started talking about my other life.
Mama and Papa never saw the need to tell her before then.
Something changed in her when she learned the truth.
It was about the same time her popularity in movies started to fade and mine began to rise.
She was almost thirty now, though she looked much younger.
“I don’t understand why we’re ruining pictures with sound,” Charlie Chaplin said with disgust a few chairs down from us. He was speaking to Mary Pickford, one of the founders of the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences. “We’ve just perfected silent films.”
Most actors and actresses shared the sentiment.
It was all anyone could talk about tonight.
Synchronized sound had been around for several years, and there had been many successful talkies made, but Hollywood and theaters across the country were slow to jump on to the new technology.
Not only was it expensive, but many silent stars were not known for their eloquent speaking abilities, and the studios worried that their famous actors and actresses would turn moviegoers away.
“You’re one of the last holdouts,” Mr. Chaplin said to Papa, turning his attention to us. “Maybe I should come work for you, Mr. Bennett.”
Papa played with his water glass, a sad smile on his face. “I shouldn’t have waited so long, Charlie. The art of silent films is a thing of the past. Bennett Studios’s next film will be a talkie.”
Mr. Chaplin’s expressive brows shot up, and most of the people within hearing distance turned to listen.
“You’re our hero,” John Barrymore said. “You held out the longest.”
My parents shared a look. Papa hadn’t waited just to preserve the art of the silent film era.
Bennett Studios was close to bankruptcy, and purchasing all the equipment necessary to make a talking film had been out of the question.
They had finally chosen to mortgage our house and lay off three-fourths of our staff—a bold and dangerous move.
“You’re starting to film soon, aren’t you?” Mary asked. “I heard you’re making Little Women.”
There were soft cries of excitement from several of the females nearby.
Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott, was a book that many people wanted to see on film.
The popularity of the story was Papa’s last great hope to hold on to his company.
If not, he would go under, like dozens of others who had succumbed to the massive takeover of the larger studios like Warner Brothers, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and Fox Films. Poverty Row was the term coined for the smaller studios.
We didn’t have the budget to make expensive and lavish films, but we worked hard and produced movies that we were proud of.
“We are making Little Women,” Papa said. “And we start filming tomorrow.”
“I imagine we all know who will play Jo March.” Mary winked at me. “Who better to play literature’s sweetheart than Hollywood’s sweetheart?”
My cheeks warmed at her praise. Photoplay magazine had first called me “Hollywood’s sweetheart,” and the title had stuck.