“But she does it for love, Pooks,” said Denise, placing her hand on his knee. “She lies because she loves him. And if you think about it”—Denise paused for effect, thinking about it—“she’s actually lying when she lets Professor Bleeker think she’s just really dim. Really, she’s very smart.”

“These comedies,” Leon scoffed, “they’re throwbacks. I mean, we used to do them in the old days, crank them out, five or six a year. I want something more elegant for you, angel, more modern, something sleek. You’d be wasted as the frumpy Maisie, wouldn’t you agree, Roxanne?”

Panache will sometimes suffice when real courage fails. “It’s true Maisie doesn’t start out in an evening gown, but—”

“Nor does she end up in one,” Leon reminded us.

Sunlight blinking up off the pool played across my field of vision, and I wished like hell I’d listened to Thelma, but I went on, “Fly Me to the Moon has a lively woman at the center, not some tough private eye, not some oil-chested Pharaoh, but a woman who grows more beautiful because she has brains. I think that’s a picture women will want to see.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” said Denise. “They’re wonderful scripts, charming, and funny and endearing. They suit my talents. You do know how great I’d be, don’t you, honey?”

“Of course.” Leon took off his sunglasses and beamed at her.

“Well, Pooks, you’re the boss, you decide, but I think I would shine.”

And with that Denise stood, dropped the cover-up, and poised herself for a moment, her voluptuous glory molded in an aquamarine swimsuit, before she walked to the diving board, treating it like a model’s runway. She executed a dive as perfectly as Esther Williams might have done. We all watched, spellbound.

“I want the best for her,” said Leon, speaking directly to me.

Denise burst to the surface, shining. The bright blonde mane of her hair cast back and the sheer energy she radiated sparkled all over her, sunlight reflecting rainbows on every drop of water that beaded on her skin. Her glory reflected in Leon’s eyes, in his face, in his smile.

“I want your next picture to be the one people are still talking about in ten years,” Leon said as she gracefully hoisted herself from the water. “I want you to shine.”

“That’s exactly what I want, Pooks.”

“I want an all-American comedy for you.”

“Oh, Charlie Frye is all-American,” said Irene with a trilling laugh. “He likes John Philip Sousa. You know . . .” And she started humming “The Stars and Stripes Forever” as she marched off like a drum majorette rounding up her brood, because Clarence was wheeling out the birthday cake.

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