Chapter 42 Ada
Ada
Reporters crowd outside Gordon’s house—not unusual since Ada’s hearing—but when someone knocks on the door, Ada hesitates.
Journalists are usually not so bold, but if that’s who it is, she might as well find out what he wants. When she opens the
door, though, she finds a man in a suit who shoves an envelope into her hands.
This time, she knows better than to assume it’s not for her. A second summons? She shouldn’t be surprised; it’s not as if
anyone believed anything she said.
She tears open the envelope and reads the official document addressed to her.
Not a hearing. A citation for contempt, ordering her to appear for trial.
She reads it again, willing the words to change.
This is far more severe. Far more damaging.
The job offers have already slowed considerably.
After this, no one will endanger their reputations to work with her.
Mother was already upset over the disastrous hearing, and maybe the future of her relationship with Ingrid remains uncertain, but Ingrid certainly won’t associate with her after a citation for contempt, nor will anyone seeking to protect themselves from suspicion.
Everyone in her life is at risk. A realization that overtakes her like a physical assault until her lungs are too tight, her body too weak.
“What’s wrong?”
Vince.
Vince.
As he joins her in the foyer, likely wondering why she hasn’t returned to the living room after answering the door, Ada can’t
look at him, at this man who cares for her with such honesty and intentionality, who does not deserve to lose his acting or
screenwriting because of her.
She hands him the citation.
Vince reads it, his jaw tight, then he takes her hands. “You can fight this.”
“No, I can’t. How can I fight this any better than I fought the hearing?”
Nothing can protect her—not silence, not speaking her mind, not action. She’s at the mercy of those in power, and all she
can do is protect those who matter to her even if she can’t protect herself.
She wraps her arms around his neck, allows the warmth of his blue eyes to draw her into him, then she kisses him. As he once
said, if this is to be the last time, then, by God, she will make it count. She wants to do anything except walk away. This
time, though, the decision is so much greater than what both would choose if they had a real choice.
“Please go, Vince.” She fights to say the words aloud. “Go and don’t come back. I won’t do this to you.”
His eyes darken. “We didn’t change anything after your hearing. Why should we do it now?”
“Because a citation is far more serious. No one will approve of me or anyone associated with me after this. I won’t be the
reason you lose everything.”
“You don’t get to decide what’s important to me.” Despite the cutting words, his voice is strained as he takes her shoulders. “If you don’t want to be the reason I lose everything, then don’t ask me to lose you.”
Gently, she takes his face in her hands, searches the depths of his gaze, holds him until every part of him is seared into
her memory. “Darling, please do this for me, and let me do this for you. If you love me, lose me.”
She does not have to conjure tears or anger or pain; she must simply harness them, redirect them, and convince the masses
outside. Giving Vince no time to react, she throws the door open, shouting loud enough for the reporters as she shoves him
across the threshold.
“Go on, then, if that’s how you feel! Get out!”
Cameras flash, capturing the apparent dispute, while Vince looks back at her—agonized, furious, confused. A look for her eyes
alone.
Ada slams the door. The reporters have seen and heard enough, and she can’t look at Vince a moment longer. She presses her
forehead to the door as a final sob rips through her chest, this one not for the cameras or anyone but herself.
She will make herself forget him, like last time. She will try, anyway. For now, she goes to the library. To the place that
will always remind her of eager, champagne-soaked kisses, of the desire sparked in every touch, of the foolish belief that
this time she would never drive him away.
Gently, she passes her fingers across the worn, cracked spines until she reaches the shelf where her novel is hidden. She
picks up the little robin figurine from Ingrid. Tonight, she will retreat into The Secret Garden—though perhaps even the story has lost its magic.
Before she can return the figurine, she feels what must be a crack near the small hole in its hollow base. It can’t be broken—unless
someone knocked it off the shelf and fixed it, hoping she wouldn’t notice. She turns it over.
Indeed, a faint crack betrays a repair—a thin line indicative of a clean cut rather than a break. Ada turns on a lamp and holds the bird beneath the light for closer inspection. Inside the hole, she notices something long and thin.
A wire.
She shakes the figure; no sound. Whatever it is has been secured in place, perhaps to avoid detection. And now, as she stares
at the wire inside this gift from private investigator Ingrid van Essen, recalling the transcripts presented during her hearing,
she knows what this must be.
A listening device.
She raises her arm to throw the figure and shatter it, but she stops. She can’t bear to destroy it, even if preserving it
means the wire will remain. The robin still reminds her of the little bird who befriended Mary Lennox when the child had no
one else.
Let Ingrid listen. There’s nothing to hear anymore.
Instead Ada puts the robin back and goes to her office to use the telephone.
“What have you got for me, love?” Minnie Musgrave asks when she answers the tip line.
Ada puts on her giddiest, most American accent. “All the dish, Mrs. Musgrave: Vince Hart just ended his relationship with
Ada Worthington-Fox because she was cited for contempt due to her refusal to cooperate with HUAC—and thank God he came to
his senses. Why sacrifice himself or his career over a silly love affair?”
“Quite a week for our vixen, isn’t it?” comes the smug reply. “You’re a doll.” Then the line disconnects, leaving Ada staring
at the receiver.
Quite a week? What did she mean? Ada’s name hasn’t been in the gossip rags at all this week.
Except she has not seen today’s edition of The Dish.
Everything inside her stills.
Gordon keeps the magazines and papers in the library. When she gets there, the latest issue of The Dish is lying in his favorite armchair—an indication he has already read it, even though she failed to notice it a moment ago.
The paper is neatly folded, allowing Ada to clearly see the featured article across the front page. With an unsteady grasp,
she picks it up and sinks into the chair.
Hollywood’s Vixen: Fraud, Fabricator, and Fascist
by Minnie Musgrave
Have I got all the dish on one of Hollywood’s favorite dishes—or former favorite, I should say, considering opinions might
change after this. Pour yourself a stiff one, have a seat, and listen up: Hollywood’s Vixen herself, Ada Worthington-Fox,
is the star of today’s exclusive interview with Constance de Vos, Miss Worthington-Fox’s mother.
You heard me—but be patient, dolls, we’ll get to that.
Allow me to remind you of August, when Miss Worthington-Fox appeared before HUAC and announced that one of the private investigators,
Ingrid van Essen, is her sister. A few weeks after this shocking revelation, Mrs. De Vos approached me to give us the whole
story—we’ll need a family tree momentarily to keep it all straight.
“My ex-husband was in London on business, where we met and married before moving to his family home in Arnhem,” explains Mrs.
De Vos. “After our twins, Ingrid and Aleida, were born, he abandoned us, so I raised my girls alone.”
Many celebrities change their names, so this is hardly unusual. One wonders if Miss Worthington-Fox, known for her privacy,
maintained such privacy about everything, even her birth name, for a reason.
Mrs. De Vos has the answers. She sits across from me in my office, hands folded primly in her lap.
“I confess I am not proud of my past. In the 1930s, I, like many, was captivated by Adolf Hitler—his charm, his promises,
his confidence. Eventually I realized the truth of Nazi ideology, and after Arnhem fell, Ingrid fled—to America, we learned
later.” One tremulous breath cracks her resolve. “Remember, I was a woman with a daughter to protect, living alone in an occupied
country. While this may be no excuse, allow me to humbly ask for your understanding as I tell you the rest.”
Imagine my shock, readers. Our beloved actress is the daughter of an admitted fascist.
“We lived alone—no ability to defend ourselves, no family except my father-in-law, who was vocally anti-Nazi, which endangered
us even more. I don’t have to explain the risks we faced, the brutal things men do to women, especially during war. My Aleida,
my beautiful girl, she was hardly eighteen—” Her voice breaks; she closes her eyes, gathers herself. “How else was I to keep
her safe? I became an SS officer’s mistress and publicly supported the Third Reich by hosting the soldiers in our home, hoping
to endear them to us. Yet each day we lived in terror, and each day I begged God for my efforts to be enough so those men
would not harm my daughter.”
There you have it: During the war, Ada Worthington-Fox entertained Nazis in her own home. Maybe she’s not a Commie but a Hitlerite.