For the first time since Jonathan was a fat, stuttering boy abandoned by his mother, ignored by his father, and seduced by his stepmother, I saw something like actual pain cross his face. Not thwarted ambition or sulking petulance, but sadness. A look so swift and fleeting that anyone other than I would have missed it altogether. However, he quickly gave an insincere laugh, raised his profile for an invisible camera, and spoke in a voice not at all discreet. “I’d say that’s a rather presumptuous question coming from a girl who has made some very bad choices. Imagine what Leon Greene would do if he knew you and the butler’s nephew were living in sin, if he knew that his granddaughter was no better than Diana Jordan.”

I could feel my birthmark flushing. “It was just an observation.”

“You should be less observant, Roxanne. I don’t want to talk about this again.”

He had made his point, and I let it pass.

The night of the premiere, searchlights from the Griffith Observatory raked across the sky, lighting it up probably all the way to Catalina Island. As the line of limos inched up before that stately institution, photographers and reporters flocked, and fans pressed against the red velvet ropes that framed a broad red carpet avenue. The publicity campaign for Fly Me to the Moon had been unrelenting, and clearly, it was paying off. The million-dollar endowment to the Observatory itself, announced with great fanfare, had garnered press from as far away as the New York Times, as well as other major papers. Newsmen, photographers, and television cameramen swarmed, eager to share with an adoring world this incredible event: the best publicity money could buy. As our limo pulled up, I thought, well, Gordon can congratulate himself on a job well done, though I recognized (as did he) that this was an applause-fest, and not a true test of the film’s success. That would be decided at the box office.

I’ve been attending premieres since I was allowed to stay up past eight, so I wasn’t especially excited, but beside me in the back seat of the limo I sensed Charlie’s almost quivering anxiety. I felt for him a sort of solicitude that surprised me. I said brightly, “So when you were warming the counter stool at Schwab’s, did you ever think you would see this night?”

“Of course I did. But I thought it would be for Coast of Heaven.” He turned away from me.

“It still can be,” I offered. “Variety said your writing was crisp and witty.”

“Yes, well, they aren’t my crisp and witty lines, are they? I’m nothing but a stooge for Max Leslie.”