Chapter 35 Ada
Ada
The purpose of an intimate evening in Vince’s downtown Los Angeles apartment was to help each other prepare for upcoming roles.
Instead, so far they have cooked and eaten penne alla vodka, talked, laughed, kissed—quite a lot—and have not glanced at a
single page of either script.
At last, they agree to rehearse one scene each. Better than nothing. While Vince refills their wineglasses, Ada stretches
her legs along the sofa and examines his part.
“A western?” she asks as he joins her, picks up her legs, sits, and lowers her crossed ankles into his lap. “You haven’t worked
on a western before, have you?”
“No, ma’am, I reckon I haven’t.” He tips an imaginary cowboy hat while she chuckles, then he drops the Southern accent. “I
was cast for one during the war, but the project was canceled. Most of those involved left to join the service.”
Something bitter touches the words. She and Vince have never talked about the war. He removes her leather pumps and runs his fingers along her nylons before gently massaging the cramps from her feet and calves.
“You didn’t serve, did you?” she asks.
His jaw clenches, then he shakes his head. “I volunteered. They turned me away—due to ‘mechanical problems’ or some such bullshit.
Sure, I broke my ankle playing football as a kid, and it’s a little weak, but I could have fought just as well as the next
man.”
She knows a similar sentiment, feeling frustrated with her circumstances. Maybe she was part of the resistance—what some might
call a double agent, in a sense. But living among fascists meant voicing neither outright support nor outright opposition
so she could best serve the work. Meanwhile countless others were vocal, heedless of the consequences. And many suffered those
consequences.
For so long she stayed quiet. First with fascism, next with Communism or anything that might expose her to conflict, to difficulty,
to harm. Then, to protect her work; now, to protect herself. Except now she has taken a public position. Silence is not the
protection she always believed it to be. One can be condemned for silence as much as for action. Maybe there is a time for
both, a use for both, and it’s simply a matter of knowing which is needed and having the courage to choose it.
Vince leans back, staring into the distance. “As the months wore on, I expected to be drafted. Other men had genuine reasons
preventing them from serving; mine was nothing. I did everything I could to convince someone to take me.”
“Sending you to the front might have been unnecessarily reckless, and the role you fulfilled was important in a different
way.”
“People were dying, Ada.” His eyes sharpen along with his tone. “My sister lost her husband to Pearl Harbor, and where was
I? Sitting in the comfort of my own home, entertaining my fellow Americans, raising funds, acting in military training films,
boosting morale, cheering for our boys while they went through hell.”
“It was hell for everyone,” she counters while he stands and turns away from her.
“Every soldier on the front, every resistance member, every Jew subjected to persecution, every person living under occupation, everyone at home wondering if or when their loved ones would return. All of them suffered, and all of them were important. And you feel like you weren’t important enough because you weren’t shot at or bombed or killed? ”
She, too, stands and turns aside even as he faces her again, likely prompted by the catch in her voice. By the tears it’s
too late to prevent. She already sees the haunted look in every soldier’s eyes when he returned from the battlefront following
Germany’s triumph over the Dutch Army. Hears the soldiers’ jackboots marching down the street. Feels the terror and helplessness
passing between herself and Madame Bellamy in the Oranjehotel interrogation room.
As Vince’s gentle hand finds her forearm, she presses into him, lets him hold her close until she looks up. “You contributed
and supported your country. Be proud of that.” She brushes a lock of hair from his forehead. “What happened does not make
you a coward.”
He searches her gaze, no doubt wondering if the past she mentioned in her last exclusive has contributed to her reaction.
Now is not the time to discuss such things, so she brings his mouth to hers, tastes the crisp Chardonnay they shared on this
warm summer evening. Then she obeys the subtle yet increasingly insistent prompting that always awakens in response to him.
The one her mind always warns her to silence.
She hooks her fingers through his suspenders, draws him closer, slips them from his shoulders. Next she reaches for his shirt,
unfastening one button, then another.
Vince looks from her fingers to her, the unspoken question clear. Not since their film’s afterparty have they attempted to
be together in this way. Over these last two months, she has thought about it, longed for it. This time, this time, they will know one another completely.
Ada dips her head in assurance, then pulls his shirt off before he catches her in a fierce hold, and suddenly they are kissing,
touching, staggering into his bedroom.
Clothes fall away with frantic intensity—Vince’s undershirt, then Ada’s skirt, then Vince’s trousers. His touch renders everything
else insignificant. She wills it to sweep her away, to erase everything except her gasping breaths, her pounding heartbeat,
her hands against his sculpted chest, then seeking his hips, pulling him nearer. Soon they will be too absorbed in one another
for him to notice what she never wants him to see. It will not interfere, not this time.
Vince pulls off Ada’s blouse, leaving both in undergarments as they collapse onto the bed. She knows only the heat of his
skin, the energy pulsing through her body, their eagerness for one another.
Until she feels him unfastening her brassiere.
At once it seizes her, the adversary she can never overcome, then she’s turning away from his next kiss, shoving against his
chest, writhing beneath him.
“Stop! Stop, get off me!”
Vince’s weight lifts immediately. “I’m sorry, what did I—?”
Ada hears no more. She moves to the far edge of the bed, snatches a blanket, and holds it across her chest. Against her thudding
heart. Aside from her shuddering breaths, no sound disturbs the quiet. Her bra hangs on by one hook, yet she feels the scar
cutting into her flesh. An ache almost as fierce as the one coursing through her body, urging her to tear this mark from her
skin, to go back to Vince, to assure him he’s done nothing wrong.
Her entire body is aflame; she cannot keep doing this to herself. To him.
“I’m sorry, I thought I . . .” Her voice dies. She makes no effort to revive it.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs. “Tell me what you want.”
You, she answers silently. I want you so desperately, Vince Hart.
What she wants she cannot have, no matter how hard she tries. This night has proven it to her—perhaps also to Vince.
That place and that man will take from her for the rest of her life. First her freedom, then her home, now the man she loves.
Loves. She knows it with each of her aching heartbeats. Someday she might be able to trust him with every part of her—both who
she was and who she is. Or perhaps this will always remain between them.
This scar is a reminder of that moment when her life belonged to Dietrich. Now she is the one permitting him to retain that
power.
She has permitted it long enough. He will not silence her, nor will his actions define her.
“May I show you?” she asks quietly.
A momentary flicker of surprise or perhaps confusion crosses Vince’s face, then he nods. Ada stands with her back to him and,
with some effort, leaves the blanket on the bed.
With hands that now tremble, she unfastens the final hook and removes her bra. The single lamp on his bedside table washes
her body in golden light. The scar is there, clearly visible, but if she does not turn to face Vince, then Dietrich wins again.
Before, she was not ready. Now, she is.
She closes her eyes. Takes a slow breath. Then she turns.
Gradually, he rises from the bed, then he is standing in his shorts, his chest rising and falling, his blue eyes clear and
warm in the light as he looks first at her face, with her dark hair draped over her shoulders, then to her exposed breasts.
The moment will come; she will know when it does.
And there it is—his eyes narrowing in scrutiny as he notices, then his jaw flickering as it clenches. Each of her heartbeats
comes faster than the last. Still, she does not turn away, does not close her eyes. She watches him.
His eyes are bright and sharp, his voice gruff, each word measured with slow, steady rage.
“Ada, who did this to you?”
She shakes her head. Someday she will answer questions. Not today.
“I’ve wanted to tell you, to explain why I . . .” She draws a steadying breath before finishing more softly. “It’s not you,
Vince. It’s never been you.”
He passes a hand across his jaw, yet upon her reassurance, the tension in his shoulders lessens slightly. He reaches for her
but waits, seeking permission. After she dips her head, he brushes his thumb across the scar—a single, slow stroke. A gesture
that doesn’t prompt it to ache as it usually does.
It prompts a different ache entirely—an ache for him, stronger than ever, yet steadying, calming.
“You are safe with me. Always.”
That, she has never doubted. She presses her hands to his, holding his open palm to her chest, where each heartbeat speaks
of her gratitude.
There is more to tell. Much more. Not today, though. Today there are only two joined heartbeats echoing their love for one
another.
Vince picks up his white cotton undershirt and slips it over her head. The fabric is light and soft against her skin, the
straps slim, the scoop neck covering her so the mark is no longer exposed. She draws a deep breath smelling of him, aromatic
and comforting.
“However long you need. It’s all right.”
His gentle murmur settles the last of Ada’s lingering nerves as he kisses her forehead. Of course she knows him, knows he
will never pressure her. Yet the reminder is everything she needs to hear. Tension no longer seizes her so fiercely despite
standing here before him, more exposed and more herself than she has been in so long.
“Do you mind if I stay with you?” she asks softly.
In response, Vince returns to his bed and beckons her, so she settles beside him.
They do not touch, allowing one another’s presence to be enough.
And soon the idea of being seen, touched, loved is not so overwhelming.
So Ada shifts closer to Vince and slips her arm across his firm waist. He draws her closer and kisses the top of her head.
Breaths and heartbeats match as one in stillness, in silence, in comfort and security.
Someday, perhaps more will be attainable. For now, she is here, safe with him, and it is perfectly enough.
The next morning, sunlight slips through the partially open curtain, its beams falling over Ada’s arm draped across Vince’s
bare chest. She blinks away sleep, listening to his deep breaths.
She is wearing Vince’s shirt, sleeping in his bed, waking next to him. Something that seemed impossible a mere few days ago.
After a moment, he stirs, so she kisses his cheek. His eyes flutter open, as bright blue as the morning sky, while a drowsy
half smile cocks the corner of his mouth. She brushes the hair from his forehead and kisses him slowly, deeply, pouring all
her affection and appreciation into the gesture. Then she rises, dresses, and slips out, filled with more peace than she’s
felt in a long time.
When she arrives at Gordon’s, she steps onto the motor court, where an unfamiliar voice chases away her lingering ease.
“Excuse me, miss, are you Ada Worthington-Fox?”
Two suited men approach. Beyond them, a black car is parked a short distance from the house.
G-men. Ada can manage fans or journalists—make a small acknowledgment to appease them, then ignore them if they grow more
persistent. The G-men, she fears, will not be so easily appeased.
Neither one is looking at her with ill intent, which does not make her any more comfortable when she considers the many reasons they might be here. Gordon already went to a hearing, and she gave her statement. What else could they possibly need to know? She bites her lip hard as the men reach her.
One tips his hat in greeting, then hands her a sealed envelope. “Have a nice day, miss.”
Nice day, indeed. As if a sealed envelope from the government wouldn’t ruin it entirely.
There is no name on the envelope, but if they were waiting outside Gordon Sharpe’s home and knew her name, they must know
she, too, lives here. Maybe this is her mail to open, maybe not. Either way, when the men drive away, Ada breaks the seal
and eases the envelope open to glimpse what’s inside.
A pink slip of paper.
They must want to see Gordon again. He is the registered Communist, and she clarified her views. She doesn’t pull the paper
out, not wanting to see the official statement, the summons, the demand for a hearing. Not again. Was once not enough?
Her walk to the front door takes twice as long as usual. Once she gives Gordon this envelope, she can no longer pretend it
isn’t real.
Inside, a kettle whistles from the kitchen, so she follows the sound, each step more difficult than the last. Sowerby greets
her with excited yet indignant yaps, clearly offended that she left him overnight.
“Well, if it isn’t America’s favorite vixen,” Gordon greets her without looking up as he pours his tea. “Tell me, does Hollywood’s
Hartthrob perform as well in the bedroom as he does on the silver screen?”
The teasing grin disappears immediately when he reads the fear that is surely reflected on her face. He opens his mouth, then
his eyes fall to the envelope.
Slowly, Ada offers it to him. Perhaps she can’t change the contents, but she can stay with him while he reads the summons. And this time she will find her way into the hearing room. This time, he will not endure it alone.
Gordon extracts the pink slip. He reads without expression, then something changes in his face, impossible for Ada to decipher.
He passes a hand over his mustache.
“Not mine, kid.”
Her relieved exhale catches in her throat. Not his. But there is only one other person living in this house.
With a trembling hand, she accepts the document and reads.
The same as the previous one—a summons to a hearing, this time in Washington, DC. This time, not summoning Gordon Sharpe.
This pink slip is a subpoena for Ada Worthington-Fox.