Free The Celebrity by Laura Z. Hobson Page A

because it so happened that all the customers were female—each and every one had congratulations to offer and questions to ask. Was it really possible for a book club to pay two hundred thousand dollars? Was it really going to be a Betty Grable picture? Was it true that Gregory was flying out to Hollywood to write on the picture himself for ten thousand dollars every week? And was Abby going out with him, or was she going to let him attend all those parties with movie stars alone, as if he were a bachelor?
    If Gerald Johns had had a moment of confusion over the first of these smiling purchases and questions, the moment was short-lived. As was his habit, he had glanced at his watch while a Mrs. George Simmons was offering her happy felicitations; it was half past ten. That meant that today Geraldine had begun her marketing at about nine. He thanked Mrs. Simmons heartily and thought without rancor, Well, I might have known. Aloud he said, smiling as he did so, “Did you run into Geraldine?”
    “No, I haven’t seen her yet, but I’ll call her the minute I get home. Perhaps you two could come to dinner soon and—”
    “We’d love to. But how did you hear it? I’m just interested.”
    “From Beth Martins, you know, lives up on the hill?”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “And she’s a sister-in-law, or maybe sister, I forget, I’m so excited, of the Pecks, and Linda Peck told her.”
    “Linda Peck?” He searched his memory. He couldn’t quite place the Pecks. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I just wondered.”
    “Why, is it a secret?”
    “Lord, no.” He paused and added, “Not any more.”
    “I thought not. Why ever should it be, anything so wonderful?”
    “Why indeed.”
    The moment Mrs. Simmons departed, Gerald Johns, never one to cry over spilled milk, beans, or apple carts, called out, imperatively, “Say, Hiram.” From the back of the store where Hiram Spriggins, his assistant, was unloading the remaining cartons a deep bass “Yes?” answered him. “Better leave the cartons for tomorrow; we’re in for a busy day.”
    For Thornton Johns, it was already a busy day. He had waked before the alarm went off, to find Cindy propped against her pillows, smoking a cigarette, and smiling at him.
    This was unusual. Everything about it was unusual. Cindy never awoke until after he had left for the office, Cindy never smoked before breakfast, and Cindy, until she had had her black coffee, never smiled at anybody.
    Now, however, she said, lovingly, “Good morning, darling, did you sleep well?”
    “Mmm,” Thorn said, and then remembered. He had not slept well. Long after Cindy had gone to sleep, he had lain awake thinking, and even after he slept he had apparently been hurrying somewhere. Now he sat up in bed, stretching. “Not really. I was making plans all night.”
    “What sort of plans? Thorny, do you really think there’ll be a movie sale?”
    “No. That’s one of the things I thought over after you went to sleep. I shouldn’t have said that to you.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I finally pinned Gregory down to telling me more about the book. He does write the damnedest stuff.”
    “Oh, Thorn. I had my heart set—” She stubbed out her cigarette but at once lighted a new one. “You’re not going to give up in advance, are you? The book club must think it will appeal to people, so why not the movies?”
    He shrugged. “I can’t say ‘why,’ I just have a hunch they’ll think it’s too mental, not enough action, all that. Gregory does too.”
    “Even so, the book club—”
    “Its name is B.S.B.” He was surprised to sound so testy, but Cindy did not appear to notice.
    “Yes. As I was saying, B.S.B. thinks—”
    “Look,” he said reasonably. “Would you go to a movie about electing the first President of the World?”
    “There’s lots in it beside world government, Gregory said.”
    “And about armies demobilizing? And nations giving up the right to make war, and agreeing to live