He picked up the check, glanced at it, and threw down a fifty-dollar bill with a show of panache, with what Julia would have recognized as a shimmering wake. Glamour.

Chapter Twenty-three

I sat at my desk one overcast November afternoon, listening to Thelma’s typewriter clack away, feeling glum and leafing through the newspaper. Unable to face the front page headlines screaming about Reds in government, Reds in the military, I turned to the society pages. There I found pictures of Leon, Denise, Jonathan, and Barbara Marsh all out together at the Cocoanut Grove, looking glittery and golden. Fly Me to the Moon wouldn’t even premiere until February, or maybe even March, and already the publicity machine had started its inexorable grind. On the entertainment pages there were pictures of Jonathan and Denise at Griffith Observatory having a serious conversation with “real astronomers.” They looked so intent they could have been Bogart and Bacall in Key Largo.

Thunder rumbled somewhere and rain pelted the windows. I dashed outside to the backyard and hurriedly took all the clothes off the line. Coming in through the back porch and the kitchen, I stopped and listened carefully. Someone was talking to Thelma. A voice I knew. I walked slowly into the living room and saw Irene wearing a chic red suit that warmed her pale complexion.

“I’ve missed you, little sister.”

I dumped the laundry on the couch and ran to her, choked up with tears. “Oh, Irene! I can’t tell you how I’ve missed you!” I hugged her again and again while Thelma handed out Kleenex.

“I’ll never approve of you and Terrence, and I still find it shocking, but as long as you don’t ask me to embrace him as a brother—”

“I never did ask that, Irene,” I said, wiping my eyes.

“Fine. I don’t want to know anything more about him. Just like I don’t want to know anything more about the writers you have fronting for your old Communist pals.”

I quickly ushered her into my office, feeling the birthmark flush with guilt. I’d never told Thelma that Irene had guessed about Max. “You’re wearing red,” I observed.

“Yes. Gordon doesn’t get to tell me what to do, who to see, or what to wear. He can’t expect that from me anymore.”

“I bet he loved hearing that.”

“I’m the least of his problems, sad to say. I want to whisk you away.”

“Where are we going?”

“Empire needs your help. Gordon wants to know what you think.”

“He’s never cared what I think.”

“We’re going to see a rough cut of Fly Me to the Moon. I told him if anyone might have some insight, it would be you.”

“Ah,” was all I could muster.