LU AND GEORGE moved fast after they'd heard the score for The Lady. Contracts were signed, the investors who had begun to wonder if Lu would ever do another show breathed a sigh of relief, and money was raised, a theater was booked, and casting began. Bobby was walking around in a happy daze, and he told Rose he owed it all to her. And even though she said no, no, no, it was all because of his talent, they both knew he was right—partly, anyway.

She and Bobby were finally dating. At night, they went out to places where everyone could see that they were a couple. Bobby let Rose pick out new clothes for him. They were mentioned twice by the famous gossip columnist Walter Winchell in his newspaper column, and Bobby liked the notoriety. He seemed pleased that their relationship was out in the open and people knew Rose was his girl. And there were private times too—precious little moments—that she relived over and over in her mind after she'd gone to bed. There was the night when he'd held her so tightly that she thought she was going to pass out, and whispered, “How did I get so lucky?” There was the time when he had looked at her and said, “I'd be a fool to let you go.” And there was the time when he had kissed her in a way that always made her knees melt and said, “Just give me a little time, Rose. I just need some time.”

If there was a little voice in the back of her head whispering that maybe what he was feeling was gratitude more than anything else, she turned off that voice fast. Bobby loved her, she knew it. A proposal and an engagement ring would follow—she knew that too.

Of course, he still hadn't invited her to his apartment, but after her nervous breakdown in his hallway she was just as glad. She thanked heaven Tristesse was honoring her promise not to say anything, but she still didn't like remembering how close she'd come to destroying everything she'd worked for.

ROSE KNEW THAT with everything else Bobby had on his mind she couldn't expect him to focus on her. She would have to wait until after he'd gotten through the rehearsals, the out-of-town tryouts, and the opening night before he'd be able to concentrate on anything except The Lady. But she'd learned to be patient.

There was only one little dark spot in her shiny daydreams of life as Mrs. Bobby Manning. Whatever punishment Bobby had inflicted on himself—the coffee, the bennies, and whatever else had gotten him through his endless all-nighters when he was writing The Lady—he hadn't bounced back completely from the abuse. His color had improved, but he still looked exhausted too much of the time, and he was still too thin.