Chapter 3 One Lucky, Lucky Man
One Lucky, Lucky Man
The rest of the afternoon, thoughts of Jack swamp her, heavy and insistent.
Even as Frankie tells Magda about the engagement, she’s consumed with Jack—her Jack, not the public’s Jack.
There is a difference, not just in the details but in the very fact that what the studio’s deemed unfit for the public is exactly what she likes, because Frankie’s drawn to interesting over polished, to unique over perfect.
That Jack is so good-looking is a strike against him.
Her Jack is real with flaws and fears, and is beautiful because of them.
And though he might propose on a beach, he would never stage a message in a bottle—will you marry me?
—and would never follow it up with dinner in a fancy convertible, or lobster on porcelain, or champagne in crystal.
Her Jack is honest with her about why he doesn’t drink often, and it isn’t from some sense of right or wrong or adherence to a barely respected law; it’s because when he drinks, his time in the Great War rises around him, thick and insistent and confusing.
Her Jack is already a restless sleeper with bouts of sleep talking, but add in alcohol, and he’s told her that everything heightens, the past shot to the surface and real.
So her Jack would plan on NuGrape soda, his favorite, and a simple blanket, with simple food.
He would be barefoot on the sand, and would lay her back, and together they would face the sky, the stars and everything above, as waves beat the shore.
Her Jack would simply roll over and breathe the question into her ear.
“It was a late night?” Magda asks, and at first Frankie’s confused until she remembers she said she was there to set up the table and to strike it at the end.
It’s a trick Nico taught her: Looping in others helps sell a story.
Assistants, secretaries, producers, friends, there are all sorts of people who will lend their names to the charade.
If Magda’s aware that elements—or the whole thing—are fiction, she doesn’t let on.
It’s tit for tat. They give her exclusives, not just as payment for the favorable stories she prints but also for the stories she doesn’t print.
Silence can express more support than words.
Late-afternoon sun scatters through leaves.
They’re in the small “park” in front of the office, alongside an empty and still carousel, horses caught in frozen leaps.
Already it feels as though a year has passed since Nico told her about this new plan, since her career began to rise while her love life got shut down.
“So when’s the date?” Magda asks.
“To quote Jack: On March 25, I become Mr. Jack Finney.”
Magda laughs, appreciating Jack’s elbow nudge to the fact that June’s fame eclipses his own. Jack, who’s the most confident, secure person Frankie’s ever met. Though the quote is one they invented, it’s actually something he’d say.
Then Magda turns serious. “That’s soon. Any word on bridesmaids? Maid of honor?”
Frankie watches the still carousel. One of the horse’s mouths is open, frozen in a laugh or a scream against its bit. “Ida, her sister. And Jack asked Milton Ewing.”
“Ida, RCO family, and Milton, a writer at RCO. I see the studio’s keeping it all close.” Off Frankie’s silence, Magda smiles and refers to her notes. “And June will move into Jack’s Pasadena house? That big Spanish-style one?”
Frankie nods. It’s got all the cozy charm of the Spanish Inquisition, June’s said of the mansion.
The Pasadena house belongs to the public.
Her Jack prefers his cottage in Venice Beach with chipped paint and cheap trim, built-in cabinets and mismatched glasses and piles of old scripts—a house no one knows about because flashy holiday gifts silence the immediate neighbors.
Her Jack is, in fact, embarrassed of his wealth, aware that it’s unearned, while the public practically insists on price tags.
The Venice cottage, she thinks. That’s how they could still see each other. Their world as a couple would be narrowed to one location, but that’s not such a far cry from how it’s been.
“No chance of them moving to Beverly Hills? I heard June has her sights set on living near Pickfair.”
“Jack likes being where everybody isn’t.”
“You know there is a postcard of his Pasadena mansion.”
Periodically, there are people in front of his gate. A few times in the alley behind his house, hoping to find souvenirs in his trash.
“There’s something June’s neighbor told me,” Magda continues.
Frankie tenses, understanding they’re veering into dangerous, unsanctioned territory. Never fill the silences, Nico’s told her. If you do, you won’t hear what you need to.
Magda continues. “The one who lives across the street from June? It was about a month ago.”
A month ago. A month ago, Jack wanted to come clean about their relationship.
Not yet, Frankie told him, and let him think that she was stalling because she wanted the promotion first, because she was confident and determined and knew she could have it all.
The truth was she knew just how easily she could have nothing.
The truth was she wasn’t sure she was willing to risk everything she had for everything she wanted.
“The neighbor said that a man was watching June’s house. That she had her lights on, and he was watching. The neighbor said he’d seen the man before. Could’ve been two months ago.”
Immediately Frankie thinks of Tank Adams, June’s ex, a giant man who always seemed a bit clumsy, a bit lost in the confines of his body as if somehow mismatched with himself.
Years back he stole from the warehouse where he worked and cashed forged checks, and the two broke up, but Tank never seemed to grasp that no means no and still sees nothing wrong with sleeping in June’s driveway to surprise her or renting hotel rooms in whatever place she’s staying on publicity tours so he can ambush her.
Frankie would bet money that it was him outside her house.
“I didn’t ask when I heard about it,” Magda continues. “Last Chance wasn’t doing so hot, so I didn’t bring it up. I guess I wanted to let you know I didn’t.”
Frankie recognizes the favor. “Thanks.” Then she remembers something Nico told her. “Why tabloids, Magda? Nico said that for a long time you were . . .” She pauses, looking for a way to phrase it.
“A real journalist?”
She nods.
“You won’t like my answer.”
“Try me.”
“This is easier. It’s easier to fall asleep at night after a day watching movies and talking about who’s dating whom and who’s wearing what designer.
” Then, with a smile, she adds, “What can I say, the hungry kids were wearing on me.” She tucks her pencil into the spiral of her notebook.
“You know I wasn’t really mad at you, for the Joan Crawford bit. ”
“I know.” Again, Frankie faces the empty park. She considers the manipulative moves Magda pulled to get this scoop. Truthfully, Frankie would’ve done the same. “It’s all part of it, isn’t it?”
Magda pats the top of her hand. “We make a good team, Frankie Donnelly.” She stands, gathering her things. “If you see Jack again, tell him congratulations. He is one lucky, lucky man.”