Chapter 31 Ada #2
“You were wonderful, darling. I’m so proud of you, and I’m delighted to share in your success.”
Without awaiting a reply, Mother slips into the crowd while Ingrid’s voice fills Ada’s head, whispering that the words were only Mother’s attempt to earn Ada’s favor.
Maybe Ingrid is right; maybe Ada is trusting Mother too easily, if not completely yet.
Still, she allows the praise to fill her, to feel as genuine as she wants it to feel.
For tonight, she will be selfish, foolish, naive, and believe what she wants to believe. For tonight, she can pretend.
The celebration proceeds while Ada mingles with her guests. If those who were at the premiere noticed the protesters, it seems
everyone has long forgotten the incident. A live band plays, the drinks flow, and someone will certainly jump into the pool
before this night is over.
After filling two champagne glasses, Ada returns indoors. No doubt Ingrid has escaped to somewhere quieter, or else somewhere
far from Mother. She really must do a better job of keeping up with her sister at these events. The library seems like the
most likely place she would go, so Ada makes her way there, leaving the music and laughter behind, taking the glasses of champagne
with her so she can offer one to her sister.
In the darkened room, she doesn’t find Ingrid; she finds Vince. He strolls slowly before the bookshelves, examining titles
illuminated by golden lamplight. Ada lingers in the doorway, reluctant to disturb him. The bond between the writer and the
written word is a sacred one.
“Seeking inspiration?” she asks at last.
“What writer can resist a library? Although there’s plenty of inspiration to be found out there.” He nods in the general direction
of the party. “These events of yours could make a fine plot for a romantic comedy, a film noir . . . just about anything.”
“Again, I’m delighted to be your muse and expect to be cast as the lead once you develop that award-winning script.”
Vince accepts the extra glass of champagne, then they drink. The bubbles in her glass sparkle like the lights on the marquee. Like Vince’s eyes when they met hers on the red carpet. Like they might be now, if the sudden heat in Ada’s cheeks weren’t preventing her from meeting his gaze.
She clears her throat. “Did you notice they put our names in the improper order on the marquee? Quite a mistake.”
Vince shakes his head. “Not a mistake.”
“Of course it was. The newcomer’s name is never placed before the seasoned actor’s, if it’s included at all. Mr. Hendrix must
have been livid . . . Someone is probably correcting it as we speak.”
He doesn’t respond, nor does he look at her. A harmless fault, true, but a fault nonetheless. Perhaps he’s loath to discuss
it because he fears Ada will be disappointed when the correction is made—and she will be, of course, though he’s not to blame
for that.
Shadows obscure his features. When he lifts his champagne to his mouth, lamplight reflects in both the golden liquid and his
quick sidelong glance.
“Vince, what are you not telling me?”
Whatever has shifted between them prompts Ada to press her palm against the satin sheen of her gown, if only to prevent herself
from reaching for him.
“When Mr. Sternberg and Mr. Hendrix offered me the role, I told them I’d accept if your name received top billing. The condition
was written into my contract terms. And not because I think you need my help to establish yourself,” he adds quickly. “I didn’t
tell you because I didn’t want you to misunderstand my intentions.”
Not a mistake, then. Vince’s doing. Slowly, Ada takes his glass, then sets both down. Still, he studies the books. She swallows
hard, seeking her voice.
“Why would you do that for me?”
“Because nobody should give a damn about who has been working longer or has more accolades to their name. This film is primarily
about her, not him. You deserve to be credited properly.”
A swell catches in her throat. “Why do you care if I receive credit or success? Especially after everything that happened between us?”
“Because everything that happened between us was a result of your willingness to give up anything, even your own happiness,
to succeed. And because when you left, I was too confused, too busy trying to understand how I’d driven you away, that I never
stopped to think about it from your perspective. If I had, I might have realized what you were doing and why. By the time
I was offered this part, I was no closer to understanding what happened between us, but our past has nothing to do with giving
you proper recognition.”
“I never intended to make you feel like it was your fault. Certainly not for all this time,” she says softly. “You were never
anything but wonderful to me. And I’m sorry I didn’t explain myself sooner.”
At last Vince looks at her—his eyes bright like the last time they found themselves in this library. “You don’t have to give
up anything. No one will ever stand in the way of your career. You won’t let them.”
Perhaps he’s right. And perhaps she was so afraid to lose the career she was working to build that she was also afraid to
allow herself to be content.
“We agreed to focus on the work . . . Why did you kiss me the way you did?” Every instance rushes over her—in her dressing
room, in their scene, in this library. And he could easily ask her the same question.
“Maybe I spent two years waiting to kiss you again. Maybe I wanted you to regret losing me as much as I regret losing you.
Maybe I know you well enough to know how you like to be kissed.” Then his hand finds the back of her neck while his thumb
presses her chin higher, his voice tight, tense. “Maybe I thought if this is the last time I’m ever going to kiss her, then
by God, I’m not going to disappoint her.”
Ada grips his tuxedo jacket. His eyes gleaming in the lamplight, his hair slashed in shadow, his ragged breath matching hers, his touch sending sparks across her skin—all of him known to her, always known to her, whether in light or shadow, on the silver screen for the world to see or in this darkened library for her eyes alone.
It’s you. Still, he said not so terribly long ago.
Perhaps it is still him for her too.
Vince’s jaw clenches, as if he is forcibly extracting himself from this moment. From her. He cannot turn aside, must not;
they have spent long enough this way. She has spent long enough this way, robbing them of one another. When he releases her, she presses her hands to his face, urges
him closer.
He catches her wrists. “Don’t, Ada. Don’t do it.” He pulls her hands away but maintains his firm hold on them. “Not unless
you can swear to me that this is what you want—and not simply for this time, or this moment, or this night. Because I cannot
do this with you again.”
The flame in his eyes is the desire she’s come to recognize mingled with deeply held hurt. Damage she put there. Her heart
clenches. “Darling, I never stopped wanting you for so much more than this time, or this moment, or this night.”
Then she kisses him and wraps her arms around him, pressing her heart to his, letting it communicate every reassurance that
she will never break it again.
Vince grips her waist, pulls her against him, presses her back to the bookshelves with such force that the books might have
fallen if the solid wooden structure weren’t secured to the wall. Ada dissolves into his touch, the vibrance of the champagne
on his lips, the faint notes of his cologne, spice and citrus. It’s a party; no one will be coming into this library. They
are alone. She can be with him, truly be with him as she has never allowed herself to be.
Yet the burning sensation has already found her breast, the place where another man took his time intricately carving while she stood before him for hours, naked and helpless.
She kisses Vince more deeply and threads her fingers through his hair.
She will fight it, ignore it, will not let it interfere this time.
But when Vince caresses her breast, over that same hidden place, the sensation intensifies. She arches her back to combat
it, tightens her hold on his hair—two gestures he interprets as encouragement, considering he lifts her skirt.
She doesn’t protest, doesn’t want to protest, has no reason to protest, not when he won’t see anything. In here, she has to
keep the damn dress on, for God’s sake. Even if she takes him upstairs, she can find a reason to leave her brassiere in place.
He won’t see anything, feel anything, notice anything. He won’t.
But she will not be present for herself or for him. She will feel nothing other than the mark Dietrich left upon her skin.
Already her back is against a prison wall, not a bookshelf, as the sharp blade presses into her flesh.
She turns aside, breaking their kiss, and catches the hand seeking her undergarments. “Stop, please stop, I can’t!”
Vince obeys. This is hardly the first time she’s stopped him. When they were together, she got quite good at it, actually.
Often with casual excuses, never reaching the point where he might feel as if he did something to upset her. Rarely did she
forget herself or attempt to push beyond the moment when the feeling overtook her. Because every time she tried, it never
worked. Instead her breaths quickened and her voice found this frantic place over which she has no control.
The place it has found now, prompting concerned lines across Vince’s forehead.
Though her heart thuds, she clears her throat. “It’s just . . . Well, it won’t do for the hostess to be absent from her own
party, will it?”
Ada smooths her skirt, then she forces herself to look at him. Vince regards her with no disappointment, no animosity, nothing beyond his usual steadfast gaze.
She brushes her thumb across his cheek and leaves a gentle kiss on his lips to assuage any worries. It is not him. Never him.
Then they take their champagne glasses and exit the library while the burning sensation on her chest joins the one wrapping
around her heart.
Before Vince, she knew only one other man this way. A young man in the resistance—just once, nothing more than respite for
two lonely individuals until, a mere week later, he was arrested and she never heard what became of him. Then she herself
was caught. After that there was no one, no matter how she tried or how many men sought her affections.
Since Vince, she has wanted him, always him. The trouble is, she can’t permit herself to have him.