Anne Girard - Platinum Doll

“I read them but I didn’t really like it,” she amended and blushed. “I really love poetry, Shelley especially.”

“Now, him I’ve heard of,” Rosalie said, sounding relieved.

“I read his poems over and over when I’m sad or when I’m lonely. And Keats, I just love Keats.”

Rosalie shook her head. “Wow, who’d have guessed you were so well-read?”

Harlean had never told anyone about her love for Keats, her passion for reading in general, or about the novel she was starting to formulate in her mind. She wasn’t sure why she had confessed it now to someone she didn’t know all that well. Even Chuck did not fully understand the dear companions her books had become in the lonely hours of her childhood. They were both quiet for the next few blocks.

“So, a writer, hmm? Like Jane Austen or something?”

“More like George Sand. Now there was a gutsy woman.”

“George Sand wasn’t a man?” Rosalie asked, and Harlean could tell that she meant the question.

“No, Rosie, she wasn’t a man. But she did have to figure out how to make her way in a man’s world. Anyway, don’t tell any of our neighbors about me wanting to write, okay? They would have a real good laugh at my expense.”

“Now, why on earth would I tell those magpies anything, honey? At least you do want to do something with your life. You’ve got goals, anyway,” Rosalie said. “I don’t think I could stand it if I thought there was nothing more than washing Ivor’s dirty socks and cooking his dinner for me to look forward to.”

“There’s more to marriage than just that. Personally, I’m pretty fond of the more intimate parts.”

“Is that a fact? I already find those pretty damn repetitive,” Rosalie giggled.

“Then you sure aren’t doing something right.”

“Not everyone is as free-spirited as you, Harlean. You’re this stunning young gal with an amazing head on your shoulders. No wonder Chuck’s always all over you, and mad-jealous to boot. Especially after the awful way his parents died, he probably lives his life terrified he’s gonna lose you.”

Rosalie had been so kind to her on the cruise that night when she’d been so upset with Chuck’s drunkenness. When Harlean had told her about the tragic death of his parents, she had offered sympathy and advice.

“Well, that isn’t gonna happen,” Harlean declared. “Whatever you think I am, first and foremost I’m Harlean McGrew, now and forever.”

“What you are, honey, is a plain old-fashioned contradiction.”

Harlean felt a smile begin to lengthen her lips at the sound of that. “I don’t mind being a contradiction as long as I know my own mind. And I can write a book anytime as long as I have my husband with me. Chuck really is the only thing that matters to me when it comes right down to it.”

After she dropped Rosalie off, Harlean rushed home. She burst through the door and called out for Chuck, eager suddenly for the assurance of his arms around her again, but the only sound that came in answer was from Duke Ellington’s orchestra. Chuck had forgotten to turn off the radio before he’d gone out.

As she glanced around she saw that he hadn’t even left her a note. There was only the Saturday Evening Post spread open on the sofa and a half-empty cup of coffee on the floor in front of it. She worked hard to press back her disappointment. She wondered what he would think if she told him about what had happened earlier at the Fox studio but of course she had no intention of telling him. He wouldn’t be pleased, it might even make him angry because Rosalie was right, he did get jealous easily. He’d said more than once that he couldn’t bear even the thought of losing her, which made sense to her after the traumatic way he had lost both parents, so she tried to be understanding about it.

After all, that was the deeper reason he drank so much, wasn’t it? He hadn’t yet fully grieved their loss, or accepted that he was not at risk of losing her to some sudden pull of fate, too. She had tried so many times to talk to him about it since that first night, but he always swiftly changed the subject. She wanted desperately to help him, but she just wasn’t sure how to do it. Right now, the blissful calm between them seemed reason enough to leave it alone for now.

Since he wasn’t home, Harlean went into the bedroom and stuffed the letter from the studio executives into a hatbox in her closet, then closed the door. When she turned back she saw their silver-framed photograph of the two of them taken on their honeymoon cruise displayed next to the orchids. He must have set that out before he left, and the assurance that seeing them gave her was enough to bring a smile back to her face.

Yes, the letter was certainly flattering but it was going to stay right there where she had hidden it. Her marriage meant more than the momentary whim of a collection of casting agents.

Chapter Four

“Breakfast in bed, milady,” Chuck said with a gallant nod as he set the tray on her lap one morning after they had been out late the night before with Rosalie and Ivor.

He was barefoot and wearing only a pale blue pair of pajama bottoms.

Harlean struggled to sit up as she brushed the hair back from her face. “What’s this for?” she sleepily asked.

“Just for being you. I brought all of your favorites—hard-boiled egg, orange juice, coffee and toast with marmalade. Look, doll, I know I’m not the easiest person sometimes, so I have to work that much harder at things.” There was a single pink rose in a bud vase beside her coffee. She leaned in to smell its sweet fragrance before she looked up at him.

“You’re perfect just as you are, Chuck.”

He drew back the draperies and morning light flooded their bedroom. His expression was calm and she could see that he was totally at ease. “If only that were true.”

Harlean pushed away all thought of the hidden note and pressed a happy kiss onto his cheek. “I’m starving.”

“I knew you would be.”

He sank onto the bed beside her and propped himself back against the headboard as she took a sip of coffee. “I have something for you,” he said.

And with that, he drew from his end table a small leather volume and gave it to her. He was awkward with it, this humble offering, one he did not fully appreciate, but it was an offering nonetheless to the woman he loved—an early volume of Keats’s poetry. Harlean gasped seeing it. Tears brightened her eyes.

“How did you know?”

“I’ve listened to every word you’ve ever spoken and I’ve heard them all. Read me one,” he bid her.

“Are you sure?”

In response he very tenderly said, “I’m not going to pretend I understand any of those poems, but read me a bit of something and I promise to try.”

And so she read him her favorite poem by John Keats, taking time with each exquisite line, because it was the one that had always reminded her of love, of marriages, and how they came apart sometimes, as her parents’ marriage had. It also made her the more insistent that her own never would.

Afterward, she kissed him again but more deeply this time. Her heart was so full of love for this complicated, tender young man, and it made her worry for him. She so wanted him to be happy here. Then she asked him about his new world here, and how his golf game with the others was coming along.

Chuck had been disappearing from the house for hours at a time when she and Rosalie were off shopping for furniture. She knew he was working to be included in the group of young men in the neighborhood. But for now the saving grace in Harlean’s mind was seeing him carefree, his demons hopefully put to rest. Winning them over was at least an objective and she decided that it was better for him to have some sort of goal than none at all.