Alex laughed harder. “Well, do you know any? I hear there’s a whole bunch in Hollywood.”
“Apparently there used to be. I don’t know where they all are now. Converted or in hiding or out of the country, I guess. And no, I don’t know any. Not that I’m aware of anyway. It’s not like the subject came up in conversation at the Trocadero or Chasen’s, at least not when I went.”
“So, you’re just going to hide out here at the beach while you wait for the hysteria to end? Don’t you think it might take a while?”
“It wouldn’t if I agreed to name names. But I’m not going to do that.”
Alex reached for his wineglass. “Names? What names?”
“If I want the studios to take my name off the blacklist, I have to testify before this ridiculous congressional committee and name every person I ever saw Carson with.”
“That guy is a commie? Also hard to believe. He seems kind of too full of himself if you ask me. Hard to be a socialist if all you care about is yourself.”
“I don’t know what he is. He dated a Party member ages ago. Went to some of the meetings with her. He told me he was just trying to impress her. But because he went to those meetings, these government men think Carson’s a communist, and if he is, then his friends and acquaintances must be communists, too, or communist sympathizers. That’s what they suspect I am.”
“Why would they think that? Just because you were in one movie with the guy?”
“Because Carson and I were dating. We were seen together. Photographed together. A lot.”
Alex thought for a moment. “Okay, but don’t you think his closest friendscouldbe sympathizers? Seems to me they could be if he was once one.”
“I don’t know who his close friends are! That’s the point. It’s not right to pretend I know something when I don’t know anything. And turning on fellow Hollywood people just because I once saw them drink a martini with Carson or they once shared a table with us at the Brown Derby or stopped by his dressing room to say hello when I was there? I’m not going to do it.”
“Ah. I get it now.” Alex nodded as if in understanding. “That’swhy I was able to find out which house was yours when I was down at the beach, trying to find somebody who knew where you lived. A bunch of people didn’t know who I was talking about when I asked about you. But there was somebody sitting at a booth in a little restaurant down the highway a bit who did. I’m not sure who it was. I think he’s been in the movies. His face was familiar but I just couldn’t place him. But he knew you were here and he told me he and others in the Colony—that’s what he called it—respect you for how you’re handling this, especially since he’s convinced you’re innocent. He told me where you were living.”
Melanie was shocked into silence for a few seconds. “Wait. What?”
“What do you mean ‘what?’ What part didn’t you hear?”
“I heard it all. You don’t know who he was?”
“I don’t. I was never into movies like you were, Mel. Sorry.”
Melanie shook her head in disbelief. “I didn’t think anyone in the Colony knew—or cared—I was here.”
“Well, I could tell he’s impressed with you. And he knows you’re trying to stay out of the limelight. He only told me where you lived because I said I was your brother.”
The timer for the oven beeped. As Melanie rose to dish up their plates she felt an odd sense of relief. She was so sure she’d been forgotten by everyone in Hollywood except those who’d put her out of a job. The thought that someone down at the Colony was in her court was wildly affirming. It was the first bit of good news about her prospects for acting again that she’d received in a long while.
It was turning out to be a good day after all.
Alex grabbed two thick books off bookshelves from the study beyond the living room and set them on a chair to boost Nicky’s height, and they ate the savory dish that Eva had made. Afterward,as they sat on the sofa with a fire going and third glasses of wine, Alex filled Melanie in on where life had taken him since he’d dropped out of college.
He and BJ, who’d aspired to be a news photographer, had run off to Paris together when she inherited a tidy sum from her grandmother. Alex, ready to shed every scrap of his previous scripted life, sold his violin, bought the musical instrument that he’d always wanted to play instead—a guitar—and played on street corners for francs and compliments. Before long, he started getting invitations to entertain at dinner parties. It was 1949 and Paris was still in the process of being reborn, like all of Europe was after the hell of war. When he and BJ tired of Paris, they hitched a ride to Amsterdam, and then West Germany, and then Spain and Italy and everywhere in between. When the money ran out, they returned to the U.S., first to Baltimore, where BJ was from, and then to Richmond because Alex had friends there, getting odd jobs so they could earn money to go back to Europe. But then BJ got pregnant. He wanted the baby; she wasn’t sure she did. He told her she’d probably feel differently when she actually became a mother, but he was wrong. After Nicky was born, she felt only resentment. A child wasn’t going to let her pursue her career. A professional photographer needed to be able to travel, to live out of a suitcase, to be able to drop everything and go to where the action was. A photographer was not a good candidate for motherhood.
When BJ left, they were in Chicago. Alex rented a room in a friend’s house for himself and Nicky, who’d just turned one. He met Regina, as assistant accountant who worked in the Palmolive Building while he was headlining a musical act at a nightclub. They married the day after Nicky’s second birthday, and then left Chicago for Buffalo when Nicky was three. And now Nicky was four—almost five—and Regina was probably in Mexico. Most likely.
Perhaps Texas.
Nevada was a distinct possibility.
“Has she left you?” Melanie asked. “Is that why you’re here in California? Or did you leave her? Is that why you don’t know where she is?”
“It’s complicated. But I’m not leaving her. Not exactly. I don’t think she’s left me. But…like I said, it’s complicated.”
Clearly Alex was unsure how much to share with her, and Melanie didn’t want to press. Perhaps in a few days he would feel better about telling her what was going on between him and his wife.
By this time, it was well after nine. Nicky had crawled up into Melanie’s lap and had fallen asleep as she held him.
