Free A Touch of Stardust by Kate Alcott

an elaborate bow, clearly in a good mood, as he surveyed the neighborhood. He looked strikingly handsome tonight, Julie thought. His suit was one she had not seen, a fine wool, polished and crisp. Just looking at him made her heart beat faster.
    “If you’re looking for glamour, Oscar Hammerstein lives next door,” Andy said, nodding at an elaborately large home partially hidden by high hedges. “If you’re looking for intellect, you find it here.”
    “Maybe a mix? Being dazzled is fun,” she teased as they walked up to the front door.
    “You dazzle me.” He bent swiftly and kissed her on the forehead, obviously in high spirits. “I’ve got a girl who reads, and I’m giving her more than movie glitz.”
    Before they even knocked, a maid in a starched white cap and apron opened the door and ushered them inside. To Julie’s left was a spacious living room, dominated by an ebony grand piano. The sofas and chairs—precisely placed—were plump and inviting, covered in a calm floral print, with ruffles at the bottom. They weren’t Hollywood, they were Fort Wayne, which was a relaxing thought.
    To her right, through glass doors, the house opened onto a patio. Beyond that was a languid pool, the water a vivid blue, fed by a lazy waterfall. All the doors were open, and a soft evening breeze flowed through the house.
    Guests were gathering—some in conversation by the fireplace, others flowing onto the patio, strong masculine hands as well as polished, tapered fingers lifting from time to time a glass of wine from the silver trays passed by the butler.
    “Look at the pool,” Andy murmured. “What do you see?”
    She peered. “It’s shaped like a frog,” she said, surprised.
    Andy chuckled. “Good, you noticed. That’s one of Herman’s jokes. He can’t take this town seriously. Would you like to hear the one he’s threatened to pull on his wife? Say yes.”
    She laughed. “Yes.”
    “Sara’s crazy about Clark Gable, thinks he is the handsomest man in the world. Herman’s threatened to invite Gable to dinner and then have him play a joke on her by taking out his false teeth at the table.”
    “Oh, Andy, Clark wouldn’t do that,” she said.
    “You can be a bit literal,” Andy chided gently. “No worry—mostactors don’t get invited to dinner in this house anyhow. Herman doesn’t think they’re smart enough—with exceptions.” He nodded in the direction of a tall, handsome woman who had just arrived and was slipping out of a camel-hair coat with easy, sinuous grace. “There’s someone you might want to see,” he said, smiling.
    Julie glanced curiously. The woman at the door was chatting now with Sara Mankiewicz, her face animated, her attention focused. Her eyes were not swiftly surveying the room, the standard gambit for party newcomers. A tingle traveled down Julie’s spine. It was Frances Marion. How could she be fifty? Her skin glowed as if scrubbed for a Noxzema ad.
    “Go claim your destiny, Miss Crawford,” Andy urged with a wink. “Or at least take a peek at a living, breathing version of what you want to be.”

    Julie wondered later at how easy it had been. Did she walk over to talk to her heroine? No, she floated. Something like that. At first she stood there awkwardly, not sure what to say to get the screenwriter’s attention. She felt like a schoolgirl again, but she was no longer part of an eager crowd, thrusting forward her autograph book for a precious signature.
    She cleared her throat. If she didn’t say something quickly, she would look like a fool. “Miss Marion, I met you briefly at Smith College last year. I would love to know what you think the future is here for women writers,” she said.
    The screenwriter turned in her direction and smiled. “The realistic one or the ideal one?” she said.
    “I’m hoping there’s a way of combining the two,” Julie replied.
    “If there is, maybe you’ll be able to find it,” Marion said, looking at her now more closely.