The streetcars didn’t come this far out, which is why she’d had to hire a taxi, yet there was plenty of traffic traveling up the road toward a gigantic white sign up on the hill. HOLLYWOODLAND.
Drawing in a deep breath, Helen held it until her lungs burned. She checked the knot of the scarf tied beneath her chin, making sure it was tight, then picked up her purse and twisted to step out of the car without juggling Grace too much. Once on the curb, she shifted the baby farther into the crook of her arm in order to slip her purse onto her wrist under the baby so she could take the small suitcase the driver was fetching out of the black-and-green-checkered cab. That suitcase held all of her earthly possessions as well as Grace’s. A shiver rippled her insides, once again making her wonder if she could do this; yet she knew she had to.
“Would you like me to carry this inside for you, ma’am?”
Every nerve in her body was trembling. “No. No. Thank you.” Helen reached out, took the hard-sided case. “Thank you again for the ride.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am, and good luck to you.” He climbed back in the taxicab and pulled away from the curb.
A horn honked as the taxi cut into the traffic and Helen’s stomach sank. Not in criticism of his skills, but at the departure itself. She was here. In California. Taking the last steps of the journey she and Grace had traveled. Once again, as she had a million times already, she wished there was another choice.
There wasn’t.
Her throat swelled up. Grace was such a good baby. Had barely fussed the entire train ride. Only whimpered a bit when she’d been hungry or needed a diaper change. She was adorable too, with her soft fuzzy blond hair and big dark eyes. The wave of sadness that engulfed Helen made her eyes sting.
She approached the building with caution at first but, remembering that Grace would soon need to be fed, her footsteps grew more purposeful.
It seemed odd that the address was for this—a building rather than a residence, a house or an apartment. But this is where Vera had mailed the letters to, so this is where they’d traveled to. She and Grace. All the way from Chicago.
At the door, Helen paused. Star’s Studio was painted on the glass in sparkling gold paint. She had no idea what that would mean for Grace, and had to hope it would be good.
She took another deep breath and grasped the handle.
The door wouldn’t budge.
She tried again. Jiggled the door.
It was locked. Locked. In the middle of the day.
She peered through the window, but it was too dark inside to see anything.
Flustered she stepped back and glanced down at Grace. The baby was still sleeping, yet Helen whispered, “Don’t worry, I won’t just leave you on the doorstep.”
She wouldn’t, but she had prepared herself for this moment—the time where she would turn Grace over and walk away. It was going to break her heart, but the alternative was worse.
The pain of losing her entire family in the raid by the North End Gang on the restaurant two years ago still lived inside her, as did watching Vera die only a few months ago. Pain like that was crippling, but she’d lived through it, and would this, too. Grace’s safety was far more important than anything else.
“If I could keep you, I would,” she whispered to Grace. “But I can’t. You’ll never be safe with me. Never.”
“Mr. McCarney isn’t booking any auditions right now.”
Helen spun around and had to squint through the glasses she’d taken to wearing two years ago. They were part of her disguise, as was the dull baggy dress. Through the blur of the magnified glasses she didn’t need, she made out a woman walking toward her. She was dressed in a sleek, hip-hugging black-and-white-striped dress, complete with matching head scarf tied on the side, and shoes that clicked against the concrete sidewalk.
Another immense wave of everything from heartbreak to fear washed over Helen. “Mr. McCarney is here?” She glanced at the door. “Inside the building?”
The woman stopped next to the door and frowned as her overly long and hard appraisal went from Helen’s toes to the top of her head before it settled on Grace. “Yes, he’s here, but he’s not taking auditions.” The woman inserted a key in the door.
It took Helen a moment to find her voice. “I’m not here for an audition. I just—”
“Whatever you are here for, Mr. McCarney cannot be disturbed.” The woman pulled the door open. “By anyone.”
Despite the way her heart was breaking and her eyes burning, Helen knew she had to act now, or never might.
“Here,” she said, handing Grace to the woman.
Startled, the woman jostled slightly, but took Grace. Hurrying before she changed her mind, Helen set the suitcase on the ground and snapped it open. She pulled out the flour sack she’d filled with all of Grace’s things as the train had pulled into Los Angeles this morning. Then she reached in her purse and pulled out the bottle full of milk.
Since the woman’s hands were full, Helen set the bag inside the door. Her throat was on fire and she had to fight hard to keep herself from crying. “Her clothes and diapers are in here, and another bottle and cans of milk.”
“What? What are you doing?”
Helen could no longer hold back the tears. They burned her cheeks as she set the bottle full of milk on Grace’s stomach and kissed her soft head one last time. “Her name is Grace and she’s a good baby.” Sobs were stealing her breath away. “A—a very good baby.”
“What? No. Take her back!”
The woman held Grace out, but Helen backed away. The pain inside her was so strong. Her heart was truly breaking in two. She shook her head. “She needs her father.”
“I’m not her father!” the woman said.
Helen grabbed the suitcase off the ground. “Mr. McCarney is.” She couldn’t see through the blur of tears, but she had to get away, so she ran. Ran. Like she had that night back in Chicago, when tommy guns had been spitting out bullets all around her.
* * *
It wasn’t just accomplishment or relief, it was knowing this was some of his best work that had Jack McCarney finally returning to his office from the production lot, throwing down the stack of paper in his arms onto the desk and stretching his hands over his head and popping his knuckles. The last three days had been a hellish race against the clock. Locked in a tiny room at the back of the lot, with his director for almost every single minute of them, they’d finally hashed out the script changes needed to make this film the best it could be.
He loathed script changes as much as he loathed actor changes. But he’d be the first to admit, it would have been impossible to film the script the way it had been originally written. This new version, the reason he’d barely left the studio for over fifty hours, would take Hollywood by a storm.
It was good. Damn good. He’d worked with Malcolm Boyd before, and though the actor wasn’t as well-known as who he’d originally cast to play the role of Walter Reeves, Boyd was now a good fit for Reeves and would play the role to a T with Wes Jenkins as the perfect supporting actor.
Full of exhilaration Jack leaned forward and slapped his desk. This was it. His big chance. He couldn’t wait to start filming.
He couldn’t wait to eat something, either. His ribs were damn near poking out of his shirt.
Jack glanced at his watch, checking to make sure Julia’s diner was still open. She hated Hollywood and everything about it, mainly because of the way Bart Broadbent had swindled her family out of several hundred acres of land. Julia had tried, but couldn’t get the land back. Bart had already sold it to the folks building Hollywoodland. Fancy