Chapter 14 Ada #2
At Mr. Sternberg’s party, he proved his ability to gather information so she would believe him when he threatened to do the
same outside the Biltmore, all to coerce his way into a Star Society invitation. A lot of bravado for nothing. All of which
sours her opinion of him further while providing slight peace of mind.
Her career is safe from Mr. Stribling, as are Gordon’s and Ingrid’s. His threats were fabricated. As for the other threats
sweeping through her industry, those might not be. But, for now, her guests are safe, so she can relax and enjoy her own party.
Ada is sipping her third glass of champagne when she notices Vince Hart and nearly chokes. He stands across the pool, wearing
dark trousers and a short-sleeved white button-down, accepting a drink from Beverly Tolbert. No one gets past security without
an invitation, so how did he get here?
When Beverly wanders away, Ada catches up to her and threads their arms, leading her on a leisurely stroll toward the back
garden.
“Did you invite Vince?” she asks, keeping her voice low.
“Why wouldn’t I? Now that you’re costars and all. I assumed you accidentally left him off the guest list, so I printed an
invitation for him.”
Leaving Vince out had been quite intentional. Beverly never strayed from the preapproved list of names, so when she returned
the completed invitations, Ada never bothered to check them prior to sending them out. If she had, she would have noticed
the extra invitation and promptly extracted it. Being Vince’s costar is one matter. Welcoming him back into her circle of
friends is entirely another.
When Ada stays quiet, Beverly frowns. “Didn’t you tell me all is well between you?”
“It is—that is, we harbor no ill will toward one another. Working together should be about our film, not our past, so I don’t
want to give people any ideas, that’s all.”
Not that Ada is hoping to rekindle anything with Vince, of course, but naturally everyone will be suspicious when they start
filming. No need to contribute to speculation by spending time together outside the workplace.
Beverly laughs. “Darling, everyone will be talking about your past. Might as well accept it.”
With that, she slips from Ada’s grasp and hurries toward the waiter carrying a silver tray of finger sandwiches.
Ada walks through the back garden with its abundance of roses and citrus trees until she reaches the tennis court, where she breathes the fresh night air.
She should find Ingrid. She meant to keep close to ensure she was enjoying herself.
One conversation with a guest led to another, and before she knew it, she lost her sister.
Tonight is for spending time together. Tomorrow will be for worrying about work and past flames.
“Care for one?”
No matter how much time passes, she will always recognize that voice, and it will always send an unbidden spark of energy
through her. Vince had the same idea as she, apparently. He crosses the tennis court, offering her a pack of cigarettes. She
accepts one and allows him to light it, then inhales deeply.
A sliver of moonlight peers through the dark sky overhead. When Vince’s cigarette flares orange, she glances at him. He looks
into the distance, his free hand tucked into his pocket.
Once he would have wrapped his arm around her waist. Once he would have tucked his own cigarette between her lips, trading
puffs between kisses. Once he would have looked only at her, rather than anywhere except her.
Though there is no ill will between them, perhaps it would be easier if there were. Then they would know to hate each other,
ignore each other, resent each other. Instead it’s as if neither one knows how to feel.
“This has always been a quiet place to get away, hasn’t it?” she asks.
After their first meeting at Ciro’s, then a night at the Cocoanut Grove nightclub, their next night together had been at one
of her first Star Society parties. Ada slipped away from the noise as she sometimes did and found that Vince had done the
same, both ending up at the tennis court.
“You’ll sell a script someday,” she said that night. “Many scripts.”
He chuckled. “How would you know when you’ve never read anything I’ve written?”
“The same way you know my face will be in the papers: because neither of us will accept anything less.” As the faint, distant music slowed, she stepped to the middle of the court and reached for him. “Dance with me?”
Vince pulled her close, one hand against the small of her back, the other in hers, his grip warm and assured. He was quiet,
the way he was when, Ada was learning, he was absorbing every sensation and stringing them into words, the same way she transformed
hers into music and movement.
“The next scene in your script, the one in which I am your muse? Our captivating British heroine meets a charming, handsome
American. He fascinates her, and he never leaves her wondering who he is. What he wants. As for what she wants, well, I should
think the audience has little doubt.” She studied the curve of his lips, then met his eyes, bright as the moonlight, withholding
nothing from her. Her heartbeat steadily climbed as he traced her jaw, lifted her chin, drew forth her breathless question.
“And then?”
“And then . . .” Vince pressed his mouth to hers, eager yet lingering, intentional yet unrestrained, awakening parts of her
no one else had found before. Then he spoke against her lips. “End scene.”
Just the ending she wanted—wrapped in his arms, his lips against hers, swaying to the music. An ending that, she felt certain,
was the start of a beginning.
“Some party.”
Ada blinks while Vince gestures over his shoulder, the music and chatter muffled by the distance. They are not in each other’s
arms now, as they were then. They stand by the net, smoking, uncertain how much distance between them is too much or too little.
She takes a drag of her cigarette to fill the silence. “Have you done any writing lately?”
“A little.”
God, she needs a much stronger drink. Should she attempt conversation?
Find an excuse to leave? Wait for him to go?
She can’t determine how this encounter should proceed any more than she can decipher his feelings about it.
Even though their feelings were once so profoundly clear about one thing: each other.
Two dancers once perfectly in time, now out of step; a script once neatly written, now crossed-out scenes on pages tossed
aside.
Vince taps ashes from his cigarette. He stares beyond the court toward the distant hills. Not at her. If they intend to work
together, they’ve got to do something about their inability to look at each other.
“When you signed on to the film, did you know I was rumored to be involved?” she asks quietly.
“When a director like Abe Sternberg calls because he wants you for his upcoming project, you take it.”
True enough, despite not answering her question. She waits. He offers nothing further. If this is their last opportunity to
speak before the work begins, she can’t lose it.
The lively faraway music slows to a ballad.
“There will be talk and rumors,” Ada says quietly, resolutely. “You know that as well as I do. And I don’t give a damn about
what anyone says or thinks or expects from me because this job means more to me than anything I’ve ever done.”
She takes a drag to calm her pounding heart until Vince looks at her, his eyes dark in the evening blackness. Vince, who should
be impossible. Every feature and muscle and bone perfectly placed, eyes that betray glimpses of the most fascinating mind
even as they maintain careful reservation. No man should be permitted to look like that. To look at her like that. To make her recall the way flutters once rippled across her stomach when they moved as one across this court.
“My focus is the work, Vince. Only the work.”
“As is mine. I sure as hell don’t want to be the actor who disappoints Mr. Sternberg. So as long as we’re in agreement . . .”
He finishes his cigarette and extinguishes the embers. “See you on set.”
As Vince returns to the party, Ada finishes her own cigarette while the tension in her chest lessens. Thank God the air is somewhat clearer.
Now to find poor Ingrid, who will be certain to gripe about being left alone among countless members of the entertainment
industry. For that conversation, Ada will need more champagne.