Free American Blonde by Jennifer Niven Page B

judged on what I can do instead of who I’m not.”
    When we reached the stairs to my dressing room, I paused before going up. Sam draped an arm across the railing. “You know it’s a shame.”
    “What’s a shame?”
    “That I don’t date actresses. After that performance today, you proved you are one.”
    He still wore a cocky grin, but the expression in his eyes was sincere enough for me to say, “Thanks, Sam. Really.”
    “Don’t mention it. Unless, of course . . .” He looked at me and I looked at him, and there was a kind of hum in the air as neither of us said anything. Suddenly, he leaned in and kissed me. He kissed me like there was no question that I would kiss him back, as if he had every right to kiss me outside my dressing room, in plain sight of everyone, his hands on either side of my face. I felt my arms reaching for him, wanting to wind around his neck, as if they had a mind of their own, and then I broke away and slapped him.
    I don’t know which of us was more surprised. He put his hand to his mouth, and said, “Jesus, Pipes.”
    “I’m sorry, but you can’t go around kissing people like that.”
    “I don’t go around kissing people. I thought I’d try kissing you. Let’s face it, we’ve been wanting to since the first time we met.”
    “I haven’t.”
    “You’re not the only one. I’ve been thinking about it too.” When I didn’t say anything, he started to laugh. He said, “You should see your face.” He laughed till he had to wipe the tears from his eyes. I could still hear him as I ran upstairs and went inside and shut the door.

    January 26, 1946
    Dear girl:
    Thank you for your thoughtful Christmas gifts, and for the checks, which I wish you wouldn’t send. We got along fine before, and I worry you don’t keep enough for yourself. I’m putting most of the money away for the children, so that they can go to college if they want to. It’s also there in case you need it someday.
    Johnny Clay left here in November, and we haven’t heard from him since. He said he was going to see a friend, and after that, he wasn’t sure. I don’t want you to worry that you haven’t heard from him. That boy is just trying to find himself, Velva Jean, like everyone else after this war. You have to give him time.
    Don’t you worry about us either. In spite of a hard winter, we’re all in good health, and everyone sends their love. Ruby Poole’s baby came early—a little girl they’re calling Mollie. Mama and baby are doing fine. We can’t wait to see this picture of yours and to see your sweet face.
    Granny says to tell you she’s proud of you. You always were one to put your mind to the things you want and do them. You remind me of your mama in that way.
    Love,
    Daddy Hoyt

EIGHT
    O n March 1, Felix Roland replaced Les Edgar as director of
Home of the Brave
. Phoebe Phillips was forced to drop out of the picture due to pneumonia. And Nigel’s wife, Pia Palmer, arrived from England.
    Cast and crew gathered on Stage 15 for Felix Roland’s first day on the set. He was a man with a reputation for hunting, gambling, womanizing, and hard drinking. Someone said he had begun his career as a stuntman, known for being the most fearless and reckless of them all. In other words, he was the exact opposite of Leslie Edgar.
    On the sidelines, Billy Taub, looking rumpled but wired, chewed pills from a prescription bottle. Nigel sat in a chair, reading through the script and making notes on the pages, while Pia Palmer—cool and slender, dusky auburn hair swept up—lounged by his side. On the other side of him was a freckle-faced, doe-eyed girl of seventeen or eighteen, as slim as a Dresden figurine. This was Babe King, who would now be playing Mallory’s sister, Anne.
    “Have the fireworks started yet?” Sam Weldon appeared, lighting a cigarette. He was looking at Mudge standing across from us beside Hal, her face rigid.
    “Fireworks? You mean because of Felix Roland?”
    “Among other