If I had not seen Elsie O’Dell on the stairs, I would have gotten in the MG, right then. I would have driven straight to Empire Studios, gone right to Leon’s office, and flung myself against his shoulder. We both would have wept and smiled to read the letter, wept and smiled for our love for each other and Julia. A heartwarming scene, something out of It’s a Wonderful Life, or even a touching Max Leslie comedy. But, in fact, I had seen Elsie on the stairs. Everyone in this particular drama had made their choices. Maybe Julia had forgiven Leon for the pain and betrayal. I could not. I vowed not to return to Summit Drive, not even to speak to Leon as long as Denise lived here. I put the letter in my handbag and went downstairs.

Looking for Clarence, I passed through the breakfast room, and there sat Denise Dell, wearing a dressing gown, the pale half-moon of her right breast exposed and glowing. She was smoking and reading the trade papers. A bright shingle of brilliantly blonde hair fell forward, grazing her shoulder. She looked up at me, then she returned to Variety, as if I didn’t deserve the slightest acknowledgment, not even the grin of the victor.

Chapter Three

The cottage that was mine for a dollar a year was far north of the fashionable Malibu, the Colony. My place was a ramshackle affair that sat up high, with steps leading to a broad porch that gazed out to the beach and the sea—like being on a yacht without the seasickness. It and the few other cottages nearby backed up to Pacific Coast Highway and faced the ocean, separated from the beach by low, rolling dunes, half dirt, half sand, lit up by stubbly, colorful ice plants clinging as best they could, given the winds, the tides, the shifting sands. High winter tides had gnawed at the beach itself, and great bright coppery coils of kelp lay above the tide line and gray gulls circled overhead.