Page 12 of A Map to Paradise

11

Melanie rose from where she’d been sitting under the window and watched as the little red sports car backed out of the Blankenship driveway. Max Somebody—lucky Max—was heading back to the real world. She then sauntered into the kitchen and reached for a glass out of the dish drainer.

She put her hand on the cold tap to get a drink but the next thing she knew, a shriek had torn its way out of her mouth and the glass lay in brilliant shards on the other side of the room. The hurled cup had responded as glass does when connecting with a solid surface at high velocity. Broken bits now glittered like diamonds on the floor.

Melanie inhaled a quick breath.

She’d just flung one of Mrs. Gilbert’s pretty glasses across Mrs. Gilbert’s sunny kitchen and it had burst into smithereens like confetti onto Mrs. Gilbert’s imported Argentine tiles.

Carson had told her that the Gilberts had been advised she’d be an excellent renter. Quiet, tidy, and careful.

Quiet? Oh, yes, most of the time she was mind-numbingly quiet. Tidy? Not really, but she had Eva. Careful? What did that even mean?

A humorless laugh launched its way out of her. She was absolutely not careful, was she? She’d aligned herself with a communist.

A communist, Melanie!

And now, because she’d been careless instead of careful, she was sweeping up a glass that wasn’t hers, hiding out like a fugitive in a house full of someone else’s things.

She tossed the bits into the trash and imagined storming through the Gilberts’ house, grabbing every breakable thing, and chucking each one as hard as she could against a wall.

It was deliciously satisfying to picture it, but only for a moment.

When the moment passed, Melanie felt only fresh defeat and hopelessness. She wasn’t that person.

And this house and the things inside it meant something to someone. It felt like a prison after five months but it hadn’t always felt that way. In the beginning, Melanie had been glad to have a place to hunker down in. She was embarrassed, angry, and heartbroken. Irving started bringing her cheap paperback romances to read every week, and her parents—after they’d recovered from the shock—sent her, through Irving, their already-read issues of National Geographic and Better Homes and Gardens , magazines that she would never have read before but devoured from first page to last. The packages from her parents always included her mother’s award-winning butterscotch cookies and the offer of a one-way train ticket back home to Omaha.

She’d made it a point to exercise in the mornings to keep her figure—which she still did—and spent many afternoons after Eva left reading aloud the lines for every character in old scripts. Irving provided those, too—to keep her elocution and characterizations at peak level.

Melanie had been hopeful the first two months at the Malibu house, lunging for the phone when it rang, thinking Walt was calling to tell her the studios had realized her name didn’t belong on that list and had taken it off. When Irving brought her mail she grabbed it greedily looking for any official-looking envelope that held within it news of her exoneration. But when fall arrived and Carson left for New York, the monotony of her purposeless days began to wear on her. She felt as though the voice of doom was whispering to her that this was her life now: hiding out in a house that wasn’t hers and waiting for vindication that might never come. It took a concerted effort to not listen to that voice.

She had also begun to feel restless with the oh-so-subtle changing of the seasons. Malibu was a sleepy enclave on a twenty-mile stretch of coastline with seemingly nothing but glittering sea and sand on one side and hillsides and canyons of toast-colored chaparral on the other. In between land and ocean and canyons of wilderness were cozy sea-view houses of all shapes and sizes and not much else. A few inns and restaurants, beaches for walking, wave sets for surfing. And always the relentless pull and push of the tides, the rising and setting of the sun, and the call of seabirds. It was a place where you could forget—if you wanted to—that there were hours in a day and chores that needed doing and problems that needed solving.

Melanie had decided one afternoon in mid-October, when she could stand the boredom no longer, to disguise herself and walk the winding half mile down to the beach. It was an easy walk getting down there; the hard part, she knew, was going to be walking back home. Yet Eva walked that route every day from the bus stop on the coastal highway and never complained. She decided not to think about the uphill return trip as she set out, nor that she was having to sneak around with a truly ugly scarf tied around her head—one she’d found snooping in some of the boxes in the master bedroom closet that the Gilberts had left behind—and wearing too-large sunglasses.

When that first little jaunt had proved uneventful, she decided to try a few more.

Sometimes she called for a taxi if she didn’t want to walk, and she would ask to be let out on the stretch of peaceful coast six miles away where a hundred or so Hollywood stars had their beach houses. Carson had told her that set designers had been loaned out to build the initial houses in what everyone called the Malibu Movie Colony. At the beginning—more than thirty years earlier—the Colony had attracted such stars as Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, and Clara Bow, first as leaseholders and then outright owners of the now famous beach property when its original owner landed in financial trouble and sold the lots.

Barbara Stanwyck had a home there now, Carson had said. And Bing Crosby, Gary Cooper, and Merle Oberon.

On another outing to the edges of the Colony, Melanie dared to go inside the Malibu Beach Café for a cup of coffee, just to see which inhabitant of the movie world she’d been ousted from might wander in. She hoped no headlining name would recognize her under the scarf and glasses. She thought she saw Paul Newman in a booth at the back that day. It was hard to be sure and she didn’t want to stare or walk back there to confirm it. Melanie lingered before leaving, gazing at all the framed autographed photos on the walls of movie stars who’d eaten there. It had been a depressing evening for her when she returned home.

The day after that she phoned for a taxi again, this time to take her fifteen miles down the coast to the pier at Santa Monica. She didn’t even get out of the car to get an ice-cream cone or a hot dog, though she wanted both. It was enough, at least on that occasion, to see joy on the faces of those enjoying the sun-kissed afternoon.

It was risky being out like that, though. Especially now. The man from Washington who had questioned her had advised her she might be subpoenaed. But she also knew that a subpoena had to be hand delivered. She felt safe at home in that. She couldn’t be served at the house because she never answered the door. Ever. That was Eva’s job. Not that the doorbell rang that often. And if it did ring after Eva left, Melanie sat in the kitchen, where she couldn’t be seen, and waited for the person to leave. The few times this had happened, it was only a delivery of something she’d asked Carson to get for her.

She wasn’t even sure those who had the ability to summon her even knew where she was living.

But getting served could happen easily if she was out and was identified.

All a subpoena server had to do was pose as a sympathetic fan, gushingly ask her if she was Melanie Cole, and when she said yes hand her the summons. At least this was what Carson had told her. It could happen that fast. Walt agreed it was probably best to stay out of sight.

Irving, who wanted her working again, was on the fence on this topic. Yes, he wanted her safe from prying eyes and tabloid journalists and heartless shutterbugs wanting to make a quick buck. But a summons to testify could clear her name. Get her off the blacklist. It had cleared the names of others.

After they’d coughed up names, though.

Did he want her to be hated like Lee J. Cobb, and that director Elia Kazan, and the screenwriter she’d never even met who named her and Carson and half a dozen others? Did Irving really want her to join the despised ranks of other Hollywood types like these three men who’d given up, given in, and given names?

When she’d said as much to Irving, he’d told her he didn’t think she’d end up being hated. Not after a while, anyway.

It was the “a while” part that she couldn’t bear.

Melanie lowered the top of the kitchen trash can after tossing in the pieces of broken glass and put the broom away. She’d have to tell Carson about the glass, she supposed.

Or maybe not.

She walked out of the kitchen into the rest of the main part of the house. It was deathly quiet and clean. Too quiet and too clean. Eva still managed to keep the place spotless even though she’d been spending only half her scheduled time at the house. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere or a dish in the sink or a spot of soap scum in the tub or so much as one item out of place. Even the sofa pillows were perfectly situated.

On impulse she walked over to the couch, picked up two of the decorative pillows, and tossed them with vengeance onto the just-vacuumed rug. Then she poured herself a gin and tonic even though the sun hadn’t begun to set—she’d promised herself from the beginning no numbing cocktails until after twilight—and walked out onto the patio. A cooler ocean breeze was sweeping up the hillside but she didn’t want to grab a sweater. She wanted to feel something new today, even if it was a slight chill on her skin.

Melanie sat down in a patio chair, took a sip of her drink, and gazed over at the Blankenships’ house. A light was on in Elwood’s office upstairs; she could hear the faintest tapping of typewriter keys striking their target. It was a welcome sound. He was probably up there writing, which meant she’d let her imagination run wild. She had too much time on her hands and not enough mental stimulation and had jumped to conclusions. June hadn’t chained Elwood to his bed. For heaven’s sake, of course she hadn’t. And hadn’t Eva told her she’d been laundering his clothes? Emptying his ashtray? Washing up his dishes? Eva had been over at the Blankenships’ every day, observing no evidence at all that Elwood was in danger, only that he was there, living as reclusively as one could.

She took another swallow, surprised that she was suddenly jealous of all the time Eva was getting to spend in that house. June wasn’t neighbor of the year or anything, but she seemed like a fairly nice person, completely devoted to Elwood’s care and his rosebushes. Melanie found herself wishing she’d taken the time to get to know her better. They might’ve become friends by now. And God, how she needed one. Since Carson had left, the only company she had was Eva—who obediently moved about the house like the soundless apparition they’d all counted on her being—and Irving for one hourly visit, once a week. If she’d become friends with June, she might’ve been able to become friends—true friends—with Elwood.

Elwood.

Melanie missed him. How long had it been since she’d spoken to him or seen his face at the window? Ten days? Eleven? No matter what June said, that was not good for a person. She’d meant what she told June last week, that she’d call a county person if she thought for a second June was neglecting Elwood. But if she had become better acquainted with June, she could’ve voiced her concerns in a better way, not as a threat, but more like advice from a friend who cared about Elwood’s welfare.

The kind way.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late.

Perhaps she could make up for the lost time by becoming June’s friend now. That woman surely needed one, too. She never had other women over. Or men, either. And when she was out shopping for Elwood or running errands, she was never gone long. She probably felt isolated, too, here in this haven of a place.

The ice was melting in her drink. Melanie downed the rest and stood up. She had a fresh tin of her mother’s butterscotch cookies that Irving had brought over the day before. They were buttery and sweet and slightly addicting. She could take them over to the Blankenships as a peace offering for having rattled June the week before. She could say the cookies were for Elwood, and perhaps that would create an opening for the two of them to have a discussion about him.

Maybe she could invite them both over for Christmas dinner. She’d have to have the meal delivered from a restaurant, of course, as she wasn’t much of a cook. Or perhaps Eva could make something the day before that she could warm up. And if Elwood could not manage the short walk across the lawn, she could bring the food over to their house, and the three of them would have a quiet holiday meal together; and they could play Christmas carols on the hi-fi and drink mulled wine and she could have a few little gifts delivered for them to open.

Yes, she liked that plan. For lots of reasons.

Melanie went back inside the house, grabbed the tin of her mother’s cookies, and headed for the front door. It was almost four thirty.

As she opened it and started to step out, she saw that June was backing out of the Blankenship garage, obviously leaving the house.

Melanie frowned. She would have to go back over later. Maybe tomorrow.

She had just begun to pivot to go back inside when she saw that June wasn’t alone in the car. For a split second, Melanie thought it was Elwood at long last leaving the house.

But then she saw that it wasn’t a man in the passenger seat.

It was Eva.

Her frown intensified. Eva should’ve finished at three. What had June been having her do all this time? And why? The last couple of days Melanie had been able to see from watching June sweep her porch and pinch off deadheads from her geraniums that her back had greatly improved. If anything, she thought June would need less of Eva’s help, not more.

And why was she driving her somewhere?

Unless June had offered to drive her down to the bus stop as dusk would soon be falling.

Which was nice of her.

But still.

Why had Eva stayed so long?

Melanie watched June head down the hill and decided she would stand at the edge of her driveway until June returned from the bus stop, and then she’d give her the cookies and the invitation to Christmas dinner.

She waited longer than she thought it would take for June to drop Eva off and was about to walk over to the Blankenships’ to see if Elwood might possibly open the front door if she pounded on it when headlights appeared, coming up the hill.

But the car, when it was fully in view, wasn’t June’s. It wasn’t Irving’s or Walt’s or Max Somebody’s. It wasn’t any car she recognized.

It also wasn’t headed for June’s driveway; it was headed for hers.

Driving up to hers. Parking in hers.

And there she stood out in the open.

She could see in the late afternoon’s low light a man in profile behind the wheel and a smaller person in the back seat: a little boy sitting on his knees, looking out the window. A devious ploy to make her drop her guard, no doubt. Who would suspect a summons deliverer would have a child with him?

Melanie turned to rush back inside the house but then the driver turned his head toward her and smiled as he shifted the car into park.

She felt her mouth drop open in disbelief.

Impossible.

The car door opened and Alex stepped out.