Chapter 50 Ada
Ada
While attending her first film premiere since the one she shared with Vince, Ada isn’t quite certain how to feel. Ashamed
or embarrassed, perhaps, or like she doesn’t belong. She’s an outcast among most of these people. No one wants to hire her,
none of the work she completed recently is moving forward, and any talk of accolades for Lady Bella Donna quickly fizzled out.
The industry she cherishes has turned its back on her.
Yet as she takes Vince’s hand and steps from the car, none of those feelings overtake her. She is with him, celebrating him
and his career. Maybe the papers will be full of gossip and criticism for her tomorrow even as they sing the praises of Hollywood’s
Hartthrob. None of it matters, really. This night is his. More importantly, it is theirs.
Vince leads her down the carpet. Past the shuttering cameras, a few hostile glares and shouts directed at her, and toward the theater, where his name is prominently displayed on the marquee.
Then he sweeps her into a dip and leaves a long, lingering kiss on her lips amid the shouts, cheers, and clamors of the photographers.
When he brings her upright, Ada matches his grin.
“One of the most sought-after actors in Hollywood arrives at his premiere with a convicted criminal on his arm and kisses
her in front of everyone?” Ada grabs his tuxedo jacket by its lapels and kisses him once more. “Sounds like a brilliant opening
for a film.”
“I might know a fellow who can write the script.”
With a sly wink, Vince threads her arm through his and they continue into the theater. If the gossip columnists didn’t have
enough to say about them before, they certainly will now.
Following the premiere and a splendid afterparty at the Chateau Marmont, the car takes them to Gordon’s. Upstairs, Vince loosens
her dress—since no one else is awake, he has promised to help her—and kisses her exposed shoulder.
His touch fills her with peace, with the longing she has held patiently and cautiously, allowing it time and space. Now, she
turns, removes his tuxedo jacket, and unfastens each button on his shirt. Then she looks up at him.
“Stay with me.”
He brushes his thumb along her jaw, sending a ripple of heat through her core. “Are you certain?”
Here, with him, with every reassurance, she knows only certainty.
“If it becomes too much, I’ll say so.” She takes his face between her palms, because in her eyes he will find every desire,
every truth. “I trust you.”
His eyes soften. “We’ll go slowly, then.”
He removes the dress from her shoulders.
With each touch, she relaxes more fully into him, anticipation and desire building as she has never permitted before.
She has always held back. This time, nothing interferes.
She does not hold back. She exists entirely in the present—not the past, not the future, this moment.
It is all she knows, all she craves, all she has finally permitted herself to accept.
Because, for all this time, and at last, it is him.
The next morning, when light spills through her bedroom window, Ada rubs the sleep from her eyes. Yawning, she grabs last
night’s half-finished glass of water from her nightstand and swallows the rest, easing her thirst. Beside her, Vince remains
asleep, sunbeams streaking across his hair, turning it copper. Quietly so as not to disturb him, she gets up, finds his tuxedo
shirt on the floor, and pulls it on—long enough to serve as a short nightdress, so it will do while she slips from the room
to refill her glass. She reaches the door, then pauses when an approving voice, gruff with sleep, breaks the quiet.
“That looks far better on you than it ever does on me.” Vince lies on his back, one arm behind his head as he regards her.
“Well, I’d hate to make you feel insecure the next time you wear it.” She sets down the glass, flashing a suggestive smile.
“Shall I take it off?”
“I’ll do that myself.” He throws the sheets aside, gets up, grabs her waist, and tosses her onto the bed, silencing her giggles
with a kiss. “Stunning in your gown at the premiere, stunning in my wrinkled shirt the next morning. You never cease to impress,
Miss Worthington-Fox.”
When his hand slips beneath the shirt, across her stomach, and over her breasts, the old, familiar flash of tension seizes
her—one that doesn’t come as often anymore but finds her on occasion. At once, Vince draws back. She longs to keep her arms
around him, to push beyond the feeling that no longer controls her but finds a hold at times. Instead she lets him withdraw.
If the moment is going to pass, she must give it the space it needs.
They lie side by side while Ada slows the breaths threatening to hasten. When she feels ready, she faces Vince, whose gentle gaze searches hers.
She runs her fingers through his disheveled locks. “Is it odd for you, knowing my name isn’t my birth name?”
He shrugs. “Odd? Not particularly. Do I wish you had trusted me with the truth? Selfishly. But that’s not my decision, is
it?”
For so long the truth was hers to share or withhold. Here in her bedroom, wearing this shirt that smells like him while the
early morning sunlight skips across his bare chest and his eyes spark with life, she trusts him with every part of her.
“I chose Ada because it’s similar to my given name. Worthington because—” She giggles. “Well, for no reason other than I thought
it sounded delightfully pretentious. And Fox because it’s the English translation of my Dutch surname.”
“And together? Powerful. Intriguing. Effortlessly seductive. All of which you’d manage no matter what your name is.” He presses
his lips to the pulse at her wrist, prompting the usual spark left by his touch. “Call yourself whatever you like, so long
as I get to call you mine.”
Ada moves into his arms again, leaving kisses on his chest, his neck, his jaw, his lips, then pulls him on top of her. A shiver
courses through her body as she arches against him, feels the little growl vibrating in his throat as his lips find her neck.
“Vince?” she prompts. “You’ve never said it. My name. My real one.”
He removes the tuxedo shirt with deliberate ease. Then he kisses the scar on her breast while everything in her stills, slows,
calms, even as she simultaneously pulses with life.
“You are safe with me, Aleida de Vos.”
Safe. She can’t recall the last time she felt entirely safe. For so long she’s been hiding, disguising everything she couldn’t
bear to reveal. Now the lies have given way to the truth—every part of her, body and spirit, entrusted completely and entirely
to him.
He is her safety, her choice. And she will choose him time and time again.
Tonight’s Star Society gathering is the first since the one that led to Mother and Dietrich’s arrest. Prior to sending invitations,
Ada wasn’t certain if anyone would come. Those who haven’t been blacklisted have been largely avoiding those who are. Now
that the time has come and the event is perhaps the largest gathering she’s ever thrown, she can’t resist giving Gordon a
triumphant grin over the top of the champagne tower.
As usual, he insisted it was necessary.
Everyone gathers around the champagne, so Ada scoops Sowerby into her arms and accepts a glass from Vince. “Well, to those
of us who have been part of the Star Society for some time, I’m thrilled to see you here. To those who are new, I’m delighted
to have you. Who knew we were a Communist front organization?”
A collective laugh rises. They can’t change what happened, so they might as well find the humor in it. When silence falls
again, Ada clears her throat.
“This group is not, in fact, a political group or anything of the sort. It grew out of a simple wish, really. A Dutch girl’s
dream to make friends in America and find her way to the silver screen, and indeed that dream came true for me and many of
you. And due to recent events, for many that dream has been crushed.”
Stillness falls over the crowd as Ada observes her audience. Union members, Mr. Sternberg, Gordon, some claimed by the hearings,
others who retain their careers, and even Beverly. Old friends and new.
“Most of us have friends on all sides of these disagreements. Most of us have made mistakes in dealing with these matters. Most of us have regrets. No matter what befalls our industry, the Star Society is a place that, I hope, everyone can call home.” She looks to Ingrid and Lars, then Vince beside them.
“And to those of us on the blacklist—well, they say black is everyone’s color. ”
Laughter and cheers follow as she lifts her glass, to which the guests toast, then the music resumes and the party commences.
Ada kisses Sowerby’s silky head before freeing him, and he scampers away, likely to mingle with guests before retreating indoors
to nap on the chaise longue in her office.
She converses with a few people before Vince reaches for her through the crowd, so she takes his hand. He leads her to the
table where Gordon, Ingrid, and Lars await them.
“Quite a party, though I expected nothing less,” Ingrid says as Ada sits beside her.
“Only the most proper sendoff for you, dear sister, though I’ll be terribly sorry to see you go tomorrow.”
“We’re due for a long vacation,” Lars says, his arm draped across the back of Ingrid’s chair.
Suddenly Vince leans forward with an eagerness Ada recognizes; he has an idea for a script. “Two sisters—an actress and an
investigator. Loosely inspired by you two, by what happened, working together to take down a larger player . . . Let me write
it, and I’ll let you approve it once I’m finished.”
He settles back, thoughtful as the idea takes shape—which, Ada agrees, is a good one. She glances at Ingrid, who clears her
throat.
“I suppose I haven’t properly apologized to all of you, have I?”
“To hell with apologies,” Gordon says with a scoff.
“We’ve all been used as a means to an end or involved in something that got out of hand or that we didn’t entirely understand.
I was an impressionable young fellow when I joined the party, and I’ll be the first to admit Communism isn’t the practical idea it seemed.
So if you’d reassure your friends at HUAC that I’m no threat, I’d like my career back.
” He winks, to which Ingrid smiles. “Let Vince write the script.”
“If Ingrid and I can play ourselves,” Ada says. Then, before Ingrid can protest, she mimics removing reading glasses and lifts
an unamused brow in clear imitation. “I most certainly will not, Leidje, and if you pester me, I will throw you into the pool.”
“No, no, no, you’ve got me all wrong.” Ingrid shakes her head. “If you pester me? You always pester me.”
After more laughter, pleasant conversation, and refills of champagne, Ada pushes through the crowd until she overlooks the
pool. She stands a few feet away, letting the vibrance of the party wash over her until arms encircle her waist, dragging
her toward the edge. With a laughing protest, Ada struggles as she meets Ingrid’s bright, challenging gaze, and only when
Ada threatens to pull her in with her does she relent. They stand there, clinging to one another and dissolving into laughter
while the water shimmers like the champagne flowing through their veins.
A band plays a lively tune while couples dance, so Ada and Ingrid release one another as Vince and Lars join them.
“Would you really want a blacklisted actress in your film?” Ada asks.
“Of course, and not simply because that blacklisted actress is you.” He spins her under his arm, then pulls her close as his
voice softens. “People are nervous, but it shouldn’t last, God willing. Until then, whatever I can do to help.”
Perhaps he can help; perhaps not. They can’t force industry professionals to support a project, movie theaters to show it,
or moviegoers to attend. Still, there must be a way they can aid those affected by what’s happened. She looks around. Nearly
everyone here is part of the entertainment industry. If they can come together for fun, why not for a shared endeavor?
“Maybe we can use the Star Society for more than just parties. We can help one another find work.”
“An excellent idea. Once I’m established as a screenwriter, I’d be happy to lend my name as a front for blacklisted writers until all this is over.” When the wind pulls a lock of hair into Ada’s eyes, he brushes it aside. “And you? What do you want to do next?”
What, indeed? She hasn’t thought of life after the blacklist—if there is to be one. She dismisses the bleak thought. Everything
comes to an end, even if right now the end feels unreachable. As the song slows to “La Vie en Rose,” she rests her head against
Vince’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“Someday I’d like to perform in a ballet, either in film or onstage. It’s what I did during the war, and I didn’t think I’d
ever be ready to do it again. Now I am, because . . . well, that’s all I’ve ever wanted, really. To perform and to live.”
Performing demands genuine authenticity by its very nature; only then can it feel real. Only then can the audience believe
it. There is nothing more intimate, more personal, more honest. To create art is to bare the entire soul. Bestowing such a
gift to others is both a responsibility and a privilege.
It’s all she knows, all she is. For so many years, she’s concealed her former self behind the woman she created. Now both
are part of her, soul and spirit, as much a part of her as those who surround her on this night.
Across the dance floor, Ada meets Ingrid’s gaze and returns her smile; then she finds Gordon among a circle of friends with
a drink in one hand and Sowerby in the other; then she nestles into Vince, who kisses the top of her head. Her twin sister,
her dear friends, the man she loves, all the greatest pieces of art in her life.
She closes her eyes to feel the music, to lose herself in the rhythm of her body in time with Vince’s, in this art form she
has known her entire life perhaps better than any other.
Someday, there won’t be a blacklist. Someday, even if the job offers resume, they will cease again. And someday, she will look back on her life and ask herself if everything was worth it. If she was happy in spite of it all.
And someday, she hopes her answer will be as it is on this night: that she was, that she is. Even still.