then the other. They were straining to hold back from what they both wanted.
“If we’re quiet...” he raggedly whispered.
“God, they’ll know, for sure!”
Harlean was meeting his kisses with anticipation. He pressed up her silk nightgown straining over her. “So what if they know? I need you, Harlean, you’re my wife!”
“Chuck! I can’t!”
Their heavy breathing fought the silence, though Marino’s muffled words still came through the thin walls. “I can’t go on like this!” Chuck growled.
“They’ve only been here a few days.”
He moved away from her and fell onto his back, his chest heaving. “Well, it feels like a goddamn eternity to me.”
Harlean nestled against him, the sound of his heart slamming in her ear. He was being petulant and spoiled. She waited for him to calm beneath her tender touch. “I love you, Chuck, with all my heart. You know I do.”
“Get them out of here, Harlean. I want my wife back.”
It was the last thing he said before he rolled away from her and pulled the covers up to create a barrier between them.
* * *
Harlean rose early the next morning so she could let the dog outside in the backyard. There was a light mist covering the lawn and the sunrise sky was all rose and vermilion. She stood watching it for a while before she went back in to make a pot of coffee, then sank onto one of the new kitchen chairs. She’d been awake most of the night, wanting Chuck as much as he had wanted her and struggling with guilt over refusing him. As glad as she had been about her mother’s arrival, it had changed things. The Bellos just needed their own house nearby and then everything would be fine.
Everything would get back to normal.
The ringing of the phone startled her. She lunged toward the dining room nook to answer it. She needed this bit of peace, time to herself. She certainly didn’t want Chuck to wake in a fouler mood than the one in which he had gone to bed.
“Hello?”
“Jean Harlow, please.”
“I’m sorry, my mother is still asleep and—”
Only then, as the words crossed her lips, did she remember the name she had given to Central Casting. She was Jean Harlow.
She cleared her throat. “Jean Harlow speaking.”
“Bring your best evening gown to the Paramount Pictures lot. Get here by nine and be prepared to spend the day.”
The voice was male, young and in a hurry. She heard the click on the other end before she had a chance to ask if she could bring her mother.
Stunned, Harlean set the phone back in the cradle, then sank against the wall. The spark of excitement she had felt faded quickly when she thought of her mother, asleep and unaware, in the next room. In spite of the enthusiasm she had initially shown, Harlean could not help wondering how the news would truly strike her. After all, Jean Harlow Bello was a beautiful woman who had struggled for years, then finally had given up on her dream only to have her young, pretty daughter called for work in a matter of days—and while using her mother’s name.
Harlean fought against the disloyalty and worry she felt. Not only was her mother likely to feel envious, Chuck would doubtlessly feel threatened that a group of men might want to use her in a motion picture.
Hollywood is no place for a lady.
The echo of her grandfather’s voice the last time they’d spoken moved through her mind now and added to what she knew would be a resounding chorus of discontent if she went through with this. A silly dare had very suddenly become something more. Harlean couldn’t help but feel as if she were on the cusp of some monumental thing, but she still wasn’t certain that finding out just what it might be was worth the risks with those she loved.
She decided to leave a note for Chuck saying that she was going off for the day with Rosalie and she was taking the car. Then she left before anyone was awake. She didn’t trust herself with them about this yet—her mother would be pushing for one side and her husband would be dead set against it on the other. After all, she kept reminding herself, it was rare to actually be chosen for work from the huge pool of extras they called in. For luck, she had just pinned Irene Mayer’s brooch squarely onto the collar of her dress and, before turning from the mirror’s reflection, she had admired her ingenuity in obtaining it. Ah, Irene’s face when she had presented the business card to her and demanded payment had made the entire adventure worthwhile. Of course she would return it in time, but for now the brooch was a symbol of her having set out to prove something to herself, setting a goal and then achieving it.
Always finish what you start. It was another thing her grandfather regularly said, and the maxim came to her as she walked across the studio lot with a renewed purpose. She wondered, with a spark of amusement, if he would think that applied to his only grandchild trying to wade into the turbulent, highly competitive waters of Hollywood. She already knew the answer to that, of course.
Skip Harlow would be livid.
Two men in silk top hats and tails, each carrying scripts, walked by her with bearded men in plaid shirts and cowboy boots. A group of actresses in dance-hall costumes stopped them to talk. Others wearing ponchos, sombreros and great false mustaches passed her by as she made her way through the bustling Paramount back lot. There was such energy to the atmosphere that she hadn’t seen when she was younger, and there was a touch of mystery to it. Harlean hadn’t expected to be drawn in by any of it today, but being in the center of everything, and on her own, suddenly felt exciting.
After she checked in at the casting office with a hundred other extras, the women were all shown to a huge room, the walls lined with mirrors, where they could change into the evening attire they had brought with them. Most of the women kept to themselves as they primped, straightened and pinned themselves together. They ranged from stout-looking matrons to slim ingenues. Her mother and Rosalie had both told her that if the hopefuls received a nod in the next few minutes it would mean a day’s wages to actors who were more than a little down on their luck. She could hear several of them murmuring prayers and affirmations to themselves as they filed back outside to line up around the soundstage.
While they all waited together, Harlean began to feel as if she were trapped in a crushing jungle of competition and desperation. Most of it was costumed in stained, faded or mended satin, or taffeta and fake fur. The actresses around her gossiped, smoked cigarettes and cracked chewing gum to lessen the strain and pass the time.
Harlean fluffed the rose silk evening dress she had worn on the cruise. It was couture and had cost her grandfather a small fortune. She guessed that hers was the only dress that had actually come from a Paris designer as she compared it to the faded costumes around her.
A no-nonsense-looking woman and man, both in gray business attire, surveyed the long line. The man quickly assessed each hopeful extra and only occasionally said “you.” The woman wrote down the person’s name on the clipboard she carried, and they moved steadily on.
He had chosen at least thirty by the time he came to Harlean. To her surprise, she felt her heart begin to pound. Suddenly, she desperately did not want to be passed over. It was a curious sensation—one that felt unnervingly like a growing sense of ambition.
When he stopped in front of her, Harlean saw that he was a remarkably young and fresh-faced man for the job. However, his gaze held the critical stare of a professional who had been at this a while.
“You, what’s your name?”
“Harl... Jean Harlow, sir.”
“Quite a looker. The director will want you, for sure.”
She was