“I can take care of myself.”
Hilliard stood and drew the curtains, causing Monty to squint in the sudden light. “Like you did last night? I’m not sure you’ll be welcome at the Pink Peacock again any time soon.”
Monty felt his face heat as he realized Hilliard was right. “I’ll send the manager a check or flowers or something. It’ll be fine.” He finished the water and sat up straighter. “I should probably go home.”
“I’m going to the studio to take care of some things. I can drop you off on my way.”
In the light, Monty could see Hilliard’s outfit: a peach-colored cotton shirt. He squinted. There were Swiss Dots all over it, and he was sporting another neckerchief, this one a paisley pattern that brought out the color of the shirt.
“It’s too early for Swiss Dots,” Monty grumbled. “How you manage to get so spiffed up at this time of the morning I’ll never know.”
“It’s half past eleven. And it’s never too early in the day for good taste.” He patted Monty’s leg. “Speaking of which, get dressed so I can take you home.”
The drive was quiet, with Henrietta perched on Monty’s lap and looking out the window at the passing traffic. He petted her back absently as he gazed ahead. He was not really looking forward to spending the entire day at home alone. When the car pulled up to the driveway, he hesitated in his seat.
“Do me a favor?” Hilliard asked.
Monty turned to him. “Anything. What?”
His friend smiled and put a hand on Monty’s thigh. “Get some rest, drink some water, eat a good square meal, and read our script.”
“That sounds like four favors.”
“Well, you did say ‘anything.’”
Monty laughed. “I can promise the first three. Not sure I’m ready for the fourth one yet.”
Hilliard nodded and leaned forward to kiss his cheek.
Monty moved Henrietta to the seat and got out. He turned, resting his forearm on the top corner of the windshield frame once the door was shut. “Thank you again for last night…and everything.”
Hilliard’s smile was soft. “You’re more than welcome.”
He trudged inside and leaned against the tall front door, letting his head fall back against it with a thump. His head still ached, but the aspirin had helped to bring the pain down from a sharp jab to a dull throb. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.
As he walked through the house, his footsteps echoed slightly in the large, empty space. He hesitated when he reached the coffee table. His empty glasses from the previous night were still there. So was the script for Together on Parade, right where Monty had left it when he’d gotten back from the studio. His stomach turned at the sight of it. Without another thought, he poured himself a glass of gin and downed it in two swallows.
Then, to appease Hilliard, he drank a glass of water and went to bed.
Chapter 4
Hilliard
Driving onto the studio lot should have long since become a monotonous task. Hilliard had been doing it for so many years now that there was a deep familiarity in the routine. He wasn’t so important as to have his own designated parking space, but it didn’t really matter to him. There was joy in simply knowing that he was doing well enough to still have a career that he loved.
As he put his Cadillac in park, the magic in his heart twinged. Now it was time to make sure his dearest friend still had one, too.
He scooped Henrietta up under one arm and carried her to the sidewalk to protect her paws from the hot asphalt. She trotted next to him as he went inside, as confident about her surroundings as any other star at Powell. When people greeted them, it was always, “Good morning, Henrietta. Good morning, Mr. Burke.” The way her ears pricked up at her name each time someone said it always made Hilliard smile.
Miss Prescott, Ezra’s sweet-as-pie secretary, turned in her chair as soon as they came around the corner.
“Good morning, Henrietta!” she squeaked, patting her legs in encouragement. The bouncy terrier obliged, hopping up onto her lap with ease and licking away at one rouged cheek. “Mx. Allen is ready for you, Mr. Burke,” she added with a giggle.
On the other side of the door, Ezra was indeed ready for something. If the fretful expression on their face was any indication, perhaps a long vacation. The desk was littered with local newspapers and popular magazines. A mess of that morning’s tabloids, no doubt.
“A little light reading?” Hilliard asked as he took a seat in one of the chairs opposite, crossing one knee neatly over the other. A brown and orange argyle sock peeked out from the rise of his trouser leg.
“You know something, Hilliard,” they said, eyes still slowly scanning the headlines on the folded paper in their hand. “I was fourteen years old when I swore to my mother I was never having children.” They slapped the paper down on their desk. “I owe her an apology for such a tremendous lie. I’ve got dozens of you. And you’re all just as horrible now as I thought you would be thirty-odd years ago.”
