Chapter 7 Ada #2
“Of course we do, but you don’t—you, the girl who once told me about every single one of Opa’s cases, certain you could convince me to develop an interest
in such matters. And if I hear the word rumor from my charming, intelligent, exhaustingly persistent sister ever again—”
“Exhaustingly persistent? As opposed to you, always begging me to enroll in dance classes?”
Warmth finds Ada’s chest amid their shared chuckles. This is what she wanted, what she missed. This is Ingrid, her Ingrid.
When the laughter fades, Ingrid glances toward her hotel room door, as though reluctant to return.
“How long are you staying?” Ada asks.
“I haven’t decided, really.” She pauses, considering. “You wouldn’t happen to need a temporary personal assistant, would you?
So I can have an excuse to stay, one that might encourage my employer to grant me a brief leave.”
“Don’t lose your job for me, and what about Lars? Of course I want you here, but—”
“Lars will understand, and even if my boss doesn’t hold my position, I can find another. I just don’t want to tell him it’s
a family matter keeping me . . . He might ask for details I’m not willing to share.”
Ada can understand that more than anyone, and Ingrid is right. If she can simply tell her boss she’s pursuing a temporary
opportunity, both their privacies will be better protected.
“Well, then, the position as my assistant is yours, although I won’t really make you work,” she says with a grin.
Ingrid grins in return, then Ada departs, her heart suddenly fluttering. They still have so much to discuss, but will she
be able to discuss any of it?
Years have passed since she last spoke to anyone from her life in Arnhem. The heat searing her skin and breath sharpening
in her lungs are signs of the life that belonged to Aleida de Vos. Buried for so long, now fighting to claim her again.
The life Ada Worthington-Fox must forget. The life Aleida de Vos reminds her she cannot, will not forget. Not after how severely she failed.
Back at Gordon’s house in Hollywood Hills, Ada changes into a bikini and beckons Mr. Sowerby, her Yorkshire terrier named
after Dickon Sowerby in The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett—a novel Ada purchased from a quaint, ivy-covered bookshop in Kent while in boarding school.
Together, they retreat to the backyard to enjoy the fading sunlight.
She stretches out on a lounge chair and tosses a ball to her delighted pup, whose golden and slate-gray coat gleams as he darts across the grass.
This is what she needs to unravel the tangle of nerves after visiting with Ingrid and the recollections of Arnhem it stirred, ones she cannot think of when she’s about to star in a film.
Ingrid is here, though. That much is enough to settle her. And Ingrid will not pressure her to discuss anything before she
is ready.
“Cast announcements are this week, so you’ve got an interview Tuesday morning.”
Gordon’s voice prompts Ada to pause with her arm raised before Sowerby’s impatient bark reminds her to throw the ball. “Casting
for the film?”
“No, for who’s playing Ada Worthington-Fox in the biographical picture about your life. Yes, for the film.” Gordon shakes
his head as he sits in the chair beside hers. “The biggest role of your life, and it’s the last thing on your mind.”
“Not true, although it’s rather difficult to focus on work out here.” She gestures to the pool—Gordon’s favorite part of his
home. The compliment wins the pleased nod she was hoping for, then Sowerby returns and drops his ball at Gordon’s feet.
The biggest role of her life, indeed—playing fierce, unapologetic Stella Fairchild, otherwise known as Bella Donna, leader
of the Fair Ladies, a notorious group of female criminals. When her own sister is found dead, she will not rest until the
murderer is brought to justice.
“Who’s conducting my interview?”
“Minnie Musgrave, of course, and she will ask you nothing about the project and everything about your personal life, and then
you have my permission to tell that devil woman to go back to where she belongs.” When she laughs, his lips curve in a fiendish
smirk as he tosses Sowerby’s ball. “No, it’s with a fellow from the radio. I left a note with the details on your desk.”
No roles for Lady Bella Donna have been revealed yet—despite the rumor circulating of Ada’s involvement, to be confirmed during the announcement.
As for the male lead starring opposite her, nothing of substance has leaked.
He will play Detective Gregory Merrick, who has tried and failed to take down Stella’s crime ring and whom she convinces to go undercover as her lover to help her solve the murder—glory and recognition for him, justice for her. If they don’t betray each other first.
Ada sits up while Gordon lights a cigarette. “Any news on my costar?”
“When have I been known to keep my mouth shut the moment I’m privy to a juicy bit of industry gossip?” Gordon purses his lips
around the cigarette, a sign of his own disappointment. “If I knew, so would you. There are no secrets between us, kid.”
As her agent leans back and unfolds a copy of The Hollywood Reporter, Ada gets up, suddenly unable to be next to him, to this man who, as he said, never keeps secrets from her.
She, on the other hand, keeps so many from him.
When she sits with her legs dangling over the pool’s edge, cool water sweeps over her skin. She turns her face toward the
sturdy palms climbing skyward and inhales a breeze carrying the sweet fragrance from the nearby rose garden. Meanwhile Sowerby,
tired of his game, curls up on the chair she vacated. She cannot think about the past, about her secrets, about any distractions.
She has a film to make.
“Are you listening to me? I said the cast will be published Tuesday morning in the papers, but Sternberg wants you at his
party tomorrow night—showing you off to his producers and investors before the announcement is public.” Gordon wades into
the pool and faces her. “I bought you a dress—don’t ask, you’ll love it—and the tailor will bring it first thing in the morning.
Significant alterations shouldn’t be needed. The car will pick you up at four, and the event is at the Biltmore.”
“Are you coming?”
“I leave for New York tomorrow, remember? A couple weeks of meetings and shows, and I’ve got a party meeting in the morning
while you’re getting fitted.”
A Communist Party meeting, the ones he never pushes her to attend, though the invitation is open. Ada can think of nothing more distasteful than meetings about politics.
Why Gordon takes such an interest in the party, she isn’t certain, other than knowing he favors it socially and economically
and does not believe—as some do—that foreign Communist governments will infiltrate America and threaten freedom and democracy.
Similar concerns of Communist influences have slowly started rippling across the film industry. Whispers of Communist writers
inserting such influences into scripts, although propaganda would never make the final cut, considering how many people review
every aspect of a film before it reaches its final product. If a writer or producer or actor tried to insert personal views,
someone would catch it. So Ada will leave them to it and keep herself out of it.
“Ada.” When she feels his palms against her knees, she blinks. “You are not the chorus girl I saw on Broadway anymore. You
are a Hollywood star. My star. And you will dazzle them.”
He’s taking her silence as nerves, she supposes, and settling them as he does so well.
“Must you always be such a dear?” She kisses his cheek. “I do hope to make you proud.”
“You already have.”
“Shall I throw a party to welcome you home after your trip?”
“I’d be heartbroken if you didn’t.” He gives her cheek an affectionate pat, then embarks on leisurely laps across the pool
while Ada fetches her towel. Gordon’s paper remains on the lounge chair, open to the article he must have been reading: “Wilkerson
Names Names.”
Names names? What sort of phrase is that?
The article describes an exposé condemning members of the Communist Party of the USA and mentioning them by name, including their card numbers.
Ada doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe, not until she has read every name twice, confirming Gordon’s is not among them.
Only a slight relief as she marches to the edge of the pool—especially because her director, Abe Sternberg, is among them.
When Gordon comes up for a breath, she waves the paper.
“What the bloody hell is this?”
“Can you believe it? Wilkerson has been drawing attention to suspected Communists for more than a month, and when he finally
confirms some, he doesn’t include me. That bastard.”
“This is not a joke, Gordon, and certainly not the sort of fame you should hope to attract.” When he emerges from the water,
she follows him to his lounge chair. “If Communism is worrisome enough to warrant exposing people like this, then is it wise
to attend party meetings? For God’s sake, my director is listed here, and what if film publicity turns into political disputes?”
As he reaches for his towel, she snatches it. “Can’t you be serious?”
“Why worry? For those named, the only difference it makes is that people know how they vote.” He takes both the paper and
the towel from her. “Columnists and politicians can clamor to remove us from the industry and from America all they want.
They can’t force it to happen. Sternberg has never kept his affiliations private, so if he was hired to direct your picture
anyway, then that means your studio heads aren’t worried about him. This won’t hurt you or the project, I promise.”
True enough; industry professionals are certainly aware of Mr. Sternberg’s Communist leanings, so perhaps the public exposure
is not as damaging as she fears. Neither is such talk as harmless as he makes it sound. The last war showed the world the
power of rhetoric. Of what it caused. Words are never just talk, never just noise, never just gossip; words hold meaning,
sway opinions, prompt action.
He pats her shoulder in reassurance, then makes his way to the house.
Ada sits and places Sowerby in her lap, seeking the little dog’s comfort to steady herself.
Fascism brutalized her home country. If Communism seizes hold of this one, it might be another extremist government.
Gordon might believe in the party, or what he believes it to be, but surely he would not support extremism.
Neither is he the threat this fear of Communist sympathizers might make him out to be.
Where such a fear might lead, though, she does not want to imagine.
She will not get involved. No good comes from political disputes. Ada learned that as a girl fighting for Arnhem only for
everything to go wrong. She can’t do it this time—not if it might lead to another failure, and not if it awakens her past.
Hollywood is a powerful entity. If these political clashes escalate, she’s one of Sternberg’s leading ladies. Assuming her
film is a success, studio heads protect their valuable assets, so she hears. With this role, she will step into a position
that will allow her to experience such protection, surely. Neither Ada nor those close to her will be affected by this turmoil.
No need to worry.
Her event is another matter. For that, she will permit herself some worry.
A party tomorrow night. At the Biltmore Hotel. Where Ingrid is. She can seize the opportunity for another visit, although
thoughts of the war still loom over her, waiting to descend in a way she has not permitted since leaving Arnhem.
The same urge that seized Ada after the Orpo officer visited her dance studio finds her again, prompting her to act. To let
the memories resurface—not to plague her but to drive her toward justice. She entertains the urge for a single moment. Then
she quiets it, lets it return to the recesses from which it emerged, buried by patience and warnings that the risk is too
great.
It is too great. For now. That is why the past must remain there. But if Ingrid discovered Ada is alive, those she escaped might
have discovered the same. If so, the past will find her.
Unless, with Ingrid’s help, Ada can find the past first and silence it.