CHAPTER 7: PRIME ENGINE

LAS VEGAS

1954

Janet held the sleeveless, full-skirted dress up, and did a twirl in front of the

wall of mirrors. “What do you think?” she asked Cilla. “The pink’s more

elegant, but I really want to wear white. Every girl should be able to wear

white on her wedding day.”

“You’ll look beautiful. You’ll look beautiful and young, and so

incredibly happy.”

“I am. I’m all of those things. I’m nineteen. I’m a major movie star. My

record is number one in the country. I’m in love.” She spiraled again, and

again, spun-gold hair flying in gleaming waves.

Even in dreams, her sheer joy danced in the air, fluttered over Cilla’s

skin.

“I’m madly in love with the most wonderful, the most handsome man in

the world. I’m rich, I’m beautiful, and the world—right this moment—the

world is mine.”

“It stays yours for a long time,” Cilla told her. But not long enough. It’s

never long enough.

“I should wear my hair up.”

Janet tossed the dress onto the bed where the pink brocade suit already

lay discarded. “I look more mature with my hair up. The studio never wants

me to wear it up. They don’t want me to be a woman yet, a real woman.

Always the girl next door, always the virgin.”

Laughing, she began to fashion her sleek fall of hair into a French twist.

“I haven’t been a virgin since I was fifteen.” Janet met Cilla’s eyes in the

mirror. And with the joy layered amusement, and a thin coat of disdain. “Do

you think the public cares if I have sex?”

“Some do. Some will. But it’s your life.”

“Goddamn right. And my career. I want adult roles, and I’m going to get

them. Frankie’s going to help me. Once we’re married, he’ll manage my

career. He’ll handle things.”

“Yes,” Cilla murmured, “he will.”

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking.” Standing in her white silk slip,

Janet continued to place pins in her hair. “Within the year I’ll be filing for

divorce. Then a brief reconciliation gets me knocked up with my second

child. I’m pregnant now, but I don’t know it. Johnnie’s already started

inside me. Only a week or so, but he’s begun. Everything changes today.”

“You eloped to Vegas, married Frankie Bennett, who was nearly ten

years older than you.”

“Vegas was my idea.” Janet picked up a can of hair spray from the

dressing table, began to spray suffocating clouds of it. “I wanted to stuff it

down their throats, I guess. Janet Hardy, and all the parts she plays,

wouldn’t even know Vegas exists. But here I am, in the penthouse of the

Flamingo, dressing for my wedding. And no one knows but me and

Frankie.”

Cilla walked to the window, looked out.

A pool sparkled below, lush gardens flowing back from its skirting.

Beyond, the buildings were small and on the tacky side. Colors faded,

shapes blurred, like the old photographs Cilla supposed she’d pieced

together to form the landscape for the dream.

“It’s nothing like it will be, really. Vegas, I mean.”

“What is?”

“You’ll marry Bennett, and the studio will spin and spin to counteract

the damage. But there won’t be any, not really. You look so spectacular

together, and that’s almost enough. The illusion of two gorgeous people in

love. And you’ll take on your first true adult role with Sarah Constantine in

Heartsong. You’ll be nominated for an Oscar.”

“After Johnnie. I have Johnnie before Heartsong. Even Mrs.

Eisenhower will send a baby gift. I cut back on the pills.” She tapped the

bottle on her dressing table before turning to lift the dress. “I’m still able to

do that, to cut down on the pills, the booze. It’s easier when I’m happy, the

way I am now.”

“If you knew what would happen? If you knew Frankie Bennett will

cheat on you with women, will gamble away so much of your money,

squander more. If you knew he’d break your heart and that you’d attempt

suicide for the first time in just over a year, would you go through with it?”

Janet stepped into the dress. “If I didn’t, where would you be?” She

turned her back. “Zip me up, will you?”

“You said, later, you’ll say that your mother offered you like a virgin to

the studio, and the studio tore the innocence out of you, piece by piece. And

that Frankie Bennett took those pieces and shredded them like confetti.”

“The studio made me a star.” She fastened pearls at her ears. “I didn’t

walk away. I craved what they gave me, and gave them my innocence. I

wanted Frankie, and gave what was left to him.”

She held up a double strand of pearls, and understanding, Cilla took

them to hook around Janet’s neck.

“I’ll do amazing work in the next ten years. My very best work. And I’ll

do some damn good work in the ten after that. Well, nearly ten,” she said

with a laugh. “But who’s counting? Maybe I needed to be in turmoil to

reach my potential. Who knows? Who cares?”

“I do.”

With a soft smile, Janet turned to kiss Cilla’s cheek. “I looked for love

all of my life, and gave it too often, and too intensely. Maybe if I hadn’t

looked so hard, someone would have given it back to me. The red belt!”

She danced away to snatch a thick scarlet belt from the clothes tossed on the

bed. “It’s just the right touch, and red’s Frankie’s favorite color. He loves

me in red.”

She buckled it on, like a belt of blood, and stepped into matching shoes.

“How do I look?”

“Perfect.”

“I wish you could come, but it’s only going to be me and Frankie, and

the funny old justice of the peace and the woman who plays the spinet.

Frankie will leak it to the press without telling me, and that’s how the photo

of the two of us coming out of the tacky little chapel gets into Photoplay.

Then the shit hits the fan.” She laughed. “What a ride.”

And laughed, and laughed, so that Cilla heard the echoes of the laughter

as she woke.

BECAUSE SHE WANTED to let her thoughts simmer away from the noise

and distractions, Cilla spent the majority of her time the next two days

sorting out the dozens of boxes and trunks she’d hauled into the barn.

Cilla had determined on her first pass that her mother had already culled

and scavenged whatever she deemed worthwhile. But Dilly had missed a

few treasures. She often did, to Cilla’s mind, being in such a rush to grab

the shiniest object, she missed the little diamonds in the rough.

Like the old photo tucked in a book. A very pregnant Janet plopped on a

chaise by the pond, mugging for the camera with a glossily handsome Rock

Hudson. Or the script for With Violets—Janet’s second Oscar nomination—

buried in a trunk full of old blankets. She found a little music box fashioned

like a grand piano that played “Für Elise.” Inside, a little handwritten note

read: From Johnnie, Mother’s Day, 1961, in Janet’s looping scrawl.

By the end of a rainy afternoon, she had a pile designated for the

Dumpster, and a small stack of boxes to keep.

When she hauled out a load in a wheelbarrow, she found the rain had

turned to fragile sunlight and her front yard full of people. Ford and her

landscaper stood on the wet grass laughing at each other, along with a man

with steel-gray hair who wore a light windbreaker. Crossing to them from a

little red pickup was the owner of the roofing company she’d hired. A boy

of about ten and a big white dog trailed after him.

After some posturing, and looking out from between Ford’s legs, Spock

tiptoed—if dogs could tiptoe—up to the white dog, sniffed, then plopped

down and exposed his belly in submission.

“Afternoon.” Cleaver of Cleaver Roofing and Gutters gave her a nod of

greeting. “Had a job to check on down the road, and thought I’d stop on the

way home to let you know we’ll be starting tomorrow if the weather’s

clear.”

“That’s great.”

“These are my grandsons, Jake and Lester.” He winked at Cilla. “They

don’t bite.”

“Good to know.”

“Grandpa.” The boy rolled his eyes. “Lester’s my dog.”

As Cilla crouched to greet the dog, Spock bumped through them to

claim Cilla’s hand. It was a clear: Uh-uh, you owe me first.

Cleaver hailed the trio of men walking toward them. “Tommy, you son

of a . . .” Cleaver slid his gaze toward his grandson, smirked. “Gun. Don’t

think you can fast-talk this lady into selling. I’ve got the roof.”

“How you doing, Hank? I’m not buying. Just checking up on my boy

here.”

“Cilla, this is my dad.” Brian, the landscaper, gripped his father’s

shoulder. “Tom Morrow.”

“He’s a slick one, Miz McGowan,” Hank warned her with another wink.

“You watch out for him. Before you know it, he’ll talk you into selling this

place, then put up a dozen houses.”

“This acreage? No more than six.” Tom offered a smile and his hand.

“Welcome to Virginia.”

“Thanks. You’re a builder?”

“I develop land, residential and commercial. You’ve taken on quite a

project here. I’ve heard you hired some good people to work on it. Present

company excepted,” he said with a grin to Hank.

“Before these two get going,” Brian interrupted, “I’ve got some

sketches on the landscaping I wanted to drop off for you to look at. Do you

want a hand with that haul?”

Cilla shook her head. “I’ve got it. I’m just going through the stuff I

brought down from the attic, stowed in the barn. Rainy-day work, I guess.”

Brian lifted a dented toaster out of the wheelbarrow. “People keep the

damnedest things.”

“I can attest.”

“We cleaned out the attic when my mother passed,” Hank put in.

“Found a whole box of nothing but broken dishes, and another dozen or

more full of papers. Receipts from groceries back thirty years, and God

knows. But you want to be careful sorting through, Miz McGowan. Mixed

all in there we found letters my daddy wrote her when he was in Korea. She

had every one of our report cards—there’s six of us kids— right through

high school. She never threw a blessed thing out, but there’re important

things up there.”

“I’m going to take my time with it. I’m finding it an interesting mix of

both sides of my family so far.”

“That’s right, this used to be the McGowan farm.” Tom scanned the

area. “I remember when your grandmother bought it from old man

McGowan, back around 1960. My father had his eye on this land, hoping to

develop it. He brooded for a month after Janet Hardy bought it—then he

decided she wouldn’t keep it above six months, and he’d snap it up cheap

from her. She proved him wrong.

“It’s a pretty spot,” Tom added, then gave his son a poke. “See that you

make it prettier. I’d better get going. Good luck, Miss McGowan. If you

need any recommendations on subs, just give me a call.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I’d better get on, too.” Hank pulled at the brim of his cap. “Get my

grandsons home for supper.”

“Grandpa.”

“They’ll talk another twenty minutes,” Brian commented when his

father and Hank strolled toward the red pickup. “But I really do have to get

going.” He handed Cilla a large manila envelope. “Let me know what you

think, what kind of changes you might want.”

“I will, thanks.”

After Brian tossed the toaster into the Dumpster, he shot a finger at

Ford. “Later, Rembrandt.”

On a short laugh, Ford waved. “Around and about, Picasso.”

“Rembrandt?”

“Short story. Wait. Jesus.” After she’d handed him the envelope and

started to push the wheelbarrow up the Dumpster’s ramp, Ford nudged her

aside. “Flex your muscles all you want, but not while I’m standing here

holding paper and guys are around.”

He shoved the envelope back at her, then rolled the wheelbarrow up to

dump. “Brian and I could both draw, and somehow or other got into a sexparts-and-positions drawing contest. We got busted passing sketches back

and forth in study hall. Earned us both a three-day pass.”

“Pass to what?”

He looked down as he dumped. “Suspension. I guess you didn’t go to

regular school.”

“Tutors. How old were you?”

“About fourteen. I got my ears burned all the way home when my

mother picked me up, and got grounded for two weeks. Two weeks, and it

was my first and last black mark in school. Talk about harsh. Hmm.”

“I bet they still have them,” she said when he rolled the barrow down

again. “And future generations will find them in the attic.”

“You think? Well, they did show considerable promise and a very

healthy imagination. Want to go for a ride?”

“A ride?”

“We can go get some dinner somewhere, catch a movie.”

“What’s playing?”

“Couldn’t say. I’m thinking of the movie as a vehicle for popcorn and

necking.”

“Sounds good,” she decided. “You can put the wheelbarrow back in the

barn while I wash up.”

WITH HER NEW WIRING APPROVED, Cilla watched Dobby and his

grandson replaster the living room walls. Art came in many forms, she

decided, and she’d found herself a pair of artists. It wouldn’t be quick, but

boy, it would be right.

“You do fancy work, too?” she asked Dobby. “Medallions, trim?”

“Here and there. Not much call for it these days. You can buy pre-made

cheaper, so most people do.”

“I’m not most people. Fancy work wouldn’t suit this area.” Hands on

hips, she turned a circle in the drop-clothed, chewed-up living space.“But

simple and interesting might. And could work in the master bedroom, the

dining room. Nothing ornate,” she said, thinking out loud. “No winged

cherubs or hanging grapes. Maybe a design. Something Celtic . . . that

would address the McGowan and the Moloney branches.”

“Moloney?”

“What? Sorry.” Distracted, she glanced back at Dobby. “Moloney would

have been my grandmother’s surname—except her mother changed it to

Hamilton just after Janet was born, then the studio changed it to Hardy.

Gertrude Moloney to Trudy Hamilton to Janet Hardy. They called her Trudy

as a girl,” she added and thought of the letters.

“Is that so?” Dobby shook his head, dipped his trowel. “Pretty, oldfashioned name Trudy.”

“And not shiny enough for Hollywood, at least when she came up in it.

She said in an interview once that no one ever called her Trudy again, once

they’d settled on Janet. Not even her family. But sometimes she’d look at

herself in the mirror and say hello to Trudy, just to remind herself. Anyway,

if I came up with some designs, we could talk about working them in

upstairs.”

“We sure could do that.”

"I’ll do some research. Maybe we could . . . Sorry,” she said when the

phone in her pocket rang. She pulled it out, stifled a sigh when she saw her

mother’s number on the display. "Sorry,” she repeated, then stepped outside

to take the call.

“Hello, Mom.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t hear about it? Did you think I wouldn’t see?”

Cilla leaned against the veranda column, stared across the road at Ford’s

pretty house. “I’m good, thanks. How are you?”

“You have no right to criticize me, to judge me. To blame me.”

“In what context?”

“Save your sarcasm, Cilla. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I really don’t.” What was Ford doing? Cilla wondered. Was he writing?

Drawing? Was he turning her into a warrior goddess? Someone who would

face down evil instead of calculating how to stretch the budget to

accommodate handcrafted plaster medallions, or handle a motherly snit

long-distance.

“The article in the paper. About you, about the farm. About me. AP

picked it up.”

“Did they? And that bothers you? It’s publicity.”

“‘McGowan’s goal is to restore and respect her neglected heritage.

Speaking over the busy sounds of banging hammers and buzzing saws, she

states: “My grandmother always spoke of the Little Farm with affection,

and related that she was drawn to it from the first moment. The fact that she

bought the house and land from my paternal great-grandfather adds another

strong connection for me.” ’ ”

“I know what I said, Mom.”

“‘My purpose, you could even say my mission, is to pay tribute to my

heritage, my roots here, by not only restoring the house and the land, but

making them shine. And in such a way that respects their integrity, and the

community.’”

“Sounds a little pompous,” Cilla commented. “But it’s accurate.”

“It goes on and on, a showcase during Janet Hardy’s visits for the

luminaries of her day. A pastoral setting for her children, now peeling paint,

rotted wood, overgrown gardens through a generation of neglect and

disinterest as Janet Hardy’s daughter, Bedelia Hardy, attempted to fill her

mother’s sparkling footsteps. How could you let them print that?”

“You know as well as I do you can’t control the press.”

“I don’t want you giving any more interviews.”

“And you should know you can’t control what I do, or don’t. Not

anymore. Spin it, Mom. You know how. Grief kept you away, and so on.

Whatever happy times you spent here were overshadowed, even smothered,

by your mother’s death here. It’ll get you some sympathy and more press.”

The long pause told Cilla her mother was considering the angles. “How

could I think of that place as anything but a tomb?”

“There you go.”

“It’s easier for you, it’s different for you. You never knew her. She’s just

an image for you, a movie clip, a photograph. She was flesh and blood for

me. She was my mother.”

“Okay.”

“It would be better, for everyone, if you vetted interviews with me or

Mario. And I’d think any reporter who works for a legitimate paper would

have contacted my people for a comment or quote. Be sure they do, next

time.”

“You’re up early,” Cilla said by way of evading.

“I have rehearsals, costume fittings. I’m exhausted before I begin.”

“You’re a trouper. I wanted to ask you something. The last year or so,

before Janet died, do you know who she was involved with?”

“Romantically? She could barely get out of bed by herself half the time

in the first weeks after Johnnie. Or she’d bounce off the walls and demand

people and parties. She’d cling to me one minute, and push me away the

next. It scarred me, Cilla. I lost my brother and my mother so close together.

And really, I lost them both the night Johnnie died.”

Because she believed that, if nothing else, that was deeply and painfully

true, Cilla’s tone softened. “I know. I can’t imagine how terrible it was.”

“No one can. I was alone. Barely sixteen, and I had no one. She left me,

Cilla. She chose to leave me. In that house you’re so determined to turn into

a shrine.”

“That’s not what I’m doing. Who was she involved with, Mom? A

secret affair, a married man. An affair that went south.”

“She had affairs. Why wouldn’t she? She was beautiful and vital, and

she needed love.”

“A specific affair, during this specific period.”

“I don’t know.” Dilly’s voice clipped on the words now. “I try not to

think about that time. It was hell for me. Why do you care? Why dredge

that kind of thing up again? I hate the theories and the speculations.”

Tread carefully, Cilla reminded herself. “I’m just curious. You hear talk,

and she did spend a lot of time here in that last year, year and a half. She

wasn’t really involved with anyone back in L.A., that I’ve heard about. It

wasn’t like her to be without a man, a lover, for very long.”

“Men couldn’t resist her. Why should she resist them? Then they’d let

her down. They always do. They make promises they don’t keep. They

cheat, they steal, and God knows they can’t stand for the woman to be more

successful.”

“So how are things with you and Num—with Mario?”

“He’s the exception to the rule. I’ve finally found the kind of man I

need. Mama never did. She never found a man worthy of her.”

“And never stopped looking,” Cilla prompted. “She would have wanted

the comfort, the love and support, especially after Johnnie died. Maybe she

looked here, in Virginia.”

“I don’t know. She never took me with her back to the farm after

Johnnie. She said she had to be alone. I didn’t want to go back anyway. It

was too painful. That’s why I haven’t been back in all these years. It’s still a

fresh wound in my heart.”

And we come full circle, Cilla thought. “Like I said, I’m just curious. So

if something or someone occurs to you, let me know. I’d better let you get

to rehearsal.”

“Oh, let them wait! Mario had the best idea. It’s phenomenal, and such a

good opportunity for you. We’ll work a duet for you and me into the show,

in the second act. A medley of Mama’s songs with clips and stills from her

movies on screen behind us. We’ll finish with ‘I’ll Get By,’ making it a trio,

putting her onstage with us, the way they did with Elvis and Céline Dion.

He’s talking to HBO, Cilla, about broadcasting.”

"Mom—”

“We’ll need you back here next week for rehearsals, and costume

design, choreography. We’re still working out the composition, but the

number would run about four minutes. Four spectacular minutes, Cilla. We

want to give you a real chance for a comeback.”

Cilla closed her eyes, debated sawing off her tongue, letting it fly— and

settled on somewhere in the middle. “I appreciate that, I really do. But I

don’t want to come back, geographically or professionally. I don’t want to

perform. I want to build.”

“You’d be building.” Enthusiasm bubbled across the continent. “Your

career, and helping me. The three Hardy women, Cilla. It’s landmark.”

My name’s McGowan, Cilla thought. “I think you’d be better

spotlighted alone. And the duet with Janet? That could be lovely, heartwrenching. ”

“It’s four minutes, Cilla. You can spare me four fucking minutes a night

for a few weeks. And it will turn your life around. Mario says—”

“I’ve just finished turning my life around, and I like where it’s standing.

I’ve got to go. I’ve got work.”

“Don’t you—”

Cilla closed the phone, deliberately shoved it back into her pocket. She

heard the throat clear behind her and, turning, saw Matt in the doorway.

“They just got the grouting done on the tile in the bathroom upstairs.

Thought you’d want to take a look.”

“Yeah. We’ll be installing the fixtures tomorrow then.”

“That’d be right.”

“Let me get my sledgehammer. We can start taking down that wall up

there. I’m in the mood for demo.”

THERE WAS LITTLE, Cilla decided, more satisfying than beating the hell

out of something. It relieved frustration, brought a quick and wild rise of

glee, and fulfilled all manner of dark fantasies. The fact was, it was—on

several levels—every bit as therapeutic as good sex.

And since she wasn’t having any sex—good or otherwise—at the

moment, knocking down walls did the job. She could be having sex, she

thought as she strode out of the house trailing plaster dust. Ford and his

magic mouth had made that fairly clear.

But she was on a kind of moratorium there—as part of the turn-the-lifearound program, she supposed. New world, new life, new style. And in

there, she’d found the real Cilla McGowan.

She liked her.

She had the house to rehab, her contractor’s license to study for, a

business to establish. And a family mystery to unravel. Scheduling in sex

with her hot neighbor wouldn’t be the smartest move.

Of course, he just had to be standing out on his veranda when she

walked out, thinking of sex. And the low-down tingle had her asking herself

if it was really, completely, absolutely necessary to abstain. They were both

adults, unattached, interested, so why couldn’t she walk on over there and

suggest they spend the evening together? Doing something more energetic

than sharing a beer?

Just straight out. No dance, no pretenses, no illusions. Isn’t that what the

real Cilla wanted? She angled her head as she considered. And plaster dust

rained down from the bill of her cap.

Maybe she should shower first.

“You’re weak and pitiful,” Cilla muttered and, amused at herself, started

to circle around to the back of the house and the landscaping crew.

She heard the deep-throated roar of a prime engine, glanced back. The

sleek black bullet of a Harley shot down the road and seemed to ricochet

through her open gates. Even as it spit gravel, she ran toward it, laughing.

Its occupant jumped off the bike, landed on scarred combat boots and

caught Cilla on the fly.

“Hello, doll.” He swung her in one quick circle, then kissed her

enthusiastically.