I'd known Monica for less than a month before we got married. Even to my untrained eyes, she was at least five months' pregnant.
That meant she was two months gone when she married me.
I cursed myself again.
There's no fool like a young fool – my old man always used to say. And, as usual, my father was right.
That wasn't my cake she was baking in her oven.
The Story of RINA MARLOWE.
Book Four.
1.
CAREFULLY RINA CLOSED THE MAGAZINE, turning down the corner of the page that she had been reading, and let it drop on the white sheet that covered her.
"Did you want something, dear?" Ilene's voice came from the deep armchair near the bed.
Rina turned to look at her.
Ilene's face was thinned by concern.
"No," Rina said. "What time is it?"
Ilene looked down at her watch.
"Three o'clock."
"Oh," Rina said. "What time did the doctor say he'd come?"
"Four," Ilene answered. "There's nothing I can get for you?"
Rina shook her head.
"No, thanks. I'm fine."
She picked up the magazine again, riffled through the pages, then threw it back on the coverlet.
"I wish to hell they'd let me out of here!"
Ilene was out of the chair now.
She looked down at Rina from the side of the bed. "Don't fret," she said quickly. "You'll be out soon enough. Then you'll wish you were still here.
I heard that the studio's just waiting for you to get out so they can put you to work in Madame Pompadour."
Rina sighed. "Not that old chestnut again.
Every time they get stuck for a picture, they take that one down off the shelf and dust it off.
Then they make a big announcement and as soon as they get all the trade stories and publicity they can, back it goes on the shelf." "Not this time," Ilene said earnestly. "I spoke to Bernie Norman in New York yesterday. He has a new writer on it and said the script was shaping up great.
He says it's got social significance now." Rina smiled. "Social significance? Who's writing it – Eugene O'Neill?"
Ilene stared at her.
"You knew all the time."
Rina shook her head. "No, I didn't. It was just a wild guess.
Has Bernie really got O'Neill?"
Ilene nodded. "He expects to have a copy of the script sent over to you as soon as O'Neill is finished."
Despite herself, Rina was impressed.
Maybe this time, Bernie really meant it.
She felt a surge of excitement flow into her.
O'Neill was a writer, not an ordinary Hollywood hack. He could make something of the story.
Then the excitement drained out of her, leaving her even more weary than before.
Social significance. Everything that was done these days bore the tag. Ever since Roosevelt took office.
"What time is it?"
"Ten after three," Ilene answered.
Rina leaned back against the pillow.
"Why don't you go out and get a cup of coffee?"
Ilene smiled. "I’m all right."
"You've been here all day."
"I want to be here," Ilene answered.
"You go." Rina closed her eyes. "I think I'll take a little nap before the doctor comes."
Ilene stood there for a moment, until she heard the soft, shallow breath of rest. Then gently she straightened the covers and looked into Rina's face.
The large eyes were closed, the cheeks thin and drawn tightly across the high cheekbones. There was a faintly blue pallor beneath the California tan.
She reached down and brushed the white-blond hair back from Rina's forehead, then quickly kissed the tired mouth and left the room.