Page 32 of A Map to Paradise

31

June folded the newspaper she’d found in the lawyer’s waiting room and placed it back on a side table with the Arts and Entertainment section on top so that the photo of Melanie Cole, the newest star of French film, was in full view.

Paris had gobbled up the bright young actress Hollywood had chased out of its studios the year before, and the new film she was starring in was apparently playing to rave reviews in France.

The movie had opened only three weeks prior in Paris and had already filled to capacity every theater where it had been shown. Extra showings had been scheduled. Additional showings had been slated for all of Provence and up and down the C?te d’Azur. And in Belgium, too.

Americans who wanted to see Ce Qu’elle a Vu would have to wait a while for a dubbed version to be shown in its indie theaters, though.

Too bad, too, the article had said. Miss Cole’s performance was spectacular, and Hollywood was going to regret losing her, especially since they’d apparently lost her over nothing: The blacklisted costar of her previous film, Carson Edwards, had been called to stand before the congressional committee eight months earlier and testified that his costar, Miss Cole, was never part of any conversation in which politics of any persuasion were discussed. The newspaper had reported he’d said his and Miss Cole’s off-camera relationship was arranged purely for photographers and fans.

“But you and Miss Cole also had an intimate relationship, did you not?” he’d been asked.

“Ah, that. That was merely for fun and the cameras,” he reportedly said. They weren’t even good friends.

That might have been the nicest thing Carson had done for Melanie, trivializing their relationship like that.

But he was still an ass.

And they were both still blacklisted.

June smiled at the photo of Melanie and then picked up the paper again, pulled out the Arts and Entertainment section, and stuffed it into her purse. She’d send the article to Eva in St. Paul.

An intercom buzzed on the desk of the receptionist at the front of the room. Seconds later June was taking a seat in the paneled office of Tobias Markham, Esquire. Elwood’s lawyer.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs. Blankenship. I know this must be a difficult time for you.”

“It’s all right. I’m not in a hurry.”

“How are you? Getting on okay? Staying busy?”

“I’m all right. I’m writing a screenplay. A second one. I couldn’t get anyone to look at the first one except for Max. He liked it. Very much, in fact. But he’s not a studio man. I’m staying with it, though.”

“Yes, I recall Elwood telling me what a wonderful assistant you had been to him since the accident. You must have learned a lot working for him.”

June cracked a smile. She couldn’t help it. “Indeed.”

“And you’re staying at Max’s house these days, right?”

“Yes. In his pool house. With Algernon.”

“Algernon.”

“Elwood’s cat.”

“Ah. Yes.”

The lawyer cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair, a wordless sign that polite small talk was over. “I just want to reiterate again how I’m deeply sorry about the loss of the Malibu house in that fire. It’s a terrible tragedy. Not only that, but you could have stayed in it all these months while…well, you know. While the estate was in flux.”

“Yes.”

“Right. On to our business, then. I’m sorry this day has come but it did have to come, as you know. I take it you’ve been informed the judge ruled for a declaration of death yesterday?”

“Yes. I…I was in the courtroom. In the back.”

“Of course. So, Mrs. Blankenship, I believe from our earlier phone conversation that you are aware that Elwood left the majority of his estate to Peter Brink and Carlton Brink, sons of the late Ruthie Brink, yes?”

“I’m aware.”

“The reason I called you in before I speak to the Brink sons is because I have a letter from Elwood that I was instructed to give to you upon his death and before the reading of his will and the disposition of his assets. With the judge’s ruling in the books, I am now free to do that.”

The lawyer opened a desk drawer and withdrew a sealed, ivory-hued envelope. He reached across the desk and handed it to her.

June took it with slightly trembling hands. “When did he give this to you?”

Markham hesitated a moment. “A number of weeks before…before last Christmas.”

They were quiet for a moment. Then the lawyer stood.

“Shall I give you a few minutes?” he said.

“Yes. Thank you.”

The lawyer left the room, closing the door behind him.

June stared at Elwood’s script on the front of the envelope, at the four letters of her name. At the elegant way he made his J s.

She hadn’t seen his script in more than a year now. The last time he’d written anything to her it was that note bidding her farewell…

In the twelve months since the house had burned down and Melanie and Eva had left, June had felt like she was suspended between two worlds: the world where Elwood was alive and the one where he wasn’t. Somewhere in the middle of that she’d been hovering, tethered to neither.

She’d been so na?ve to think a missing person could be declared dead in just a couple of months, even with a suicide note. If there’s no body, there’s no physical evidence of a death. If there’s no physical evidence of a death, there is no declaration of death. Four months after Christmas, when she began to cautiously inquire when a person was legally considered deceased, she’d been astounded to hear it was often seven years, and that if any family member wanted it to happen sooner, they had to bring a petition before a judge, which June had done, as Elwood Blankenship’s only living relative, a month ago. Everything that had belonged to Elwood, including his cat, had been in estate limbo, the entirety still owned by a man who seemed to have simply vanished into thin air.

What bothered June most when she learned all of this was knowing the three rosebushes that kept vigil over Elwood’s grave wouldn’t be cared for in a limbo state, and that was simply not acceptable. She’d gone out to the property every Sunday since the fire to water, tend, and nurture them. The rest of the lot was a weed-filled jungle at the twelve-month mark, but not those three rosebushes.

It was because of them and what they meant that she petitioned the court, and likewise it was because of them she would beg those Brink boys at three o’clock today when she met them to let her buy the land.

But first there was this letter.

She could not even begin to guess what Elwood would have to say to her, knowing she’d read it upon his death.

June slit the envelope open with a fingernail and pulled out a single sheet of paper, written on both sides in Elwood’s careful script. He’d dated it four months before he swallowed the sleeping pills:

My dearest June,

If you are reading this then I have passed from this life to whatever awaits me beyond it.

I need to tell you why I did not leave you the Malibu house.

If I were a braver man I might have explained my decision in person because you certainly deserve that but I am not that brave man. I did not want you living in the Malibu house after I was gone. It is not a house for the living; it is a mausoleum of memories for us both. Were you to stay in it I think you would come to despise its hold on you. I do not want that for you.

I never should have let you stay on at this house and care for me after Frank passed. It was the most selfish thing I have ever done. And when I came to understand that you loved me like you loved Frank, continuing to let you stay was the most heartless thing I’ve ever done. You should have been free to begin a new life away from this house and away from me when Frank died. I am so desperately sorry, June.

I have left you the Palm Springs house instead. You can live there if you wish but my hope is you sell it and buy something else in a place that makes you happy. It sits on prime real estate and should fetch a nice price. I also want you to know that I have left a letter to be given to MGM assuring them that you were the strength and sweetness of anything I wrote for them the past nine years, not me. I have written that they would be fools not to employ you as a screenwriter under your own name. I do not think they are fools, but they might be slow-moving. Don’t give up on them. They will come around.

I know full well that I owe you more than I can ever repay and have treated you dismally. If you could find it in your heart to forgive me for my many flaws and for the ways I have misused your love and friendship I would be grateful. I want your forgiveness so that you can be done with me and find happiness again.

Despite what Max and you and everyone else has tried to tell me over the years, I did kill Ruthie. I was driving too fast, I was showing off, I had been drinking, and I was reckless with her precious life. I took from her sons their mother and only remaining parent. I did that. This is my confession.

June, you have the biggest heart of anyone I know and within it are such riches to be shared with the world. I know you will do great things.

I loved Ruthie, but I loved you, too. And for far longer. Perhaps you are the only person who can understand how it is possible to love two people like I loved the two of you. First her, then you—in my own way. From the moment she left me you became the brightest star in my little cosmos. I am so grateful to have known you.

Yours, Elwood

June held the letter to her chest as tears fell, dotting the paper like raindrops. “Oh, El,” she whispered.

She pulled the letter away from her body and traced her finger on the words I loved you, too .

Elwood had been wrong about so many things. He hadn’t killed anyone. To kill was to plunge the knife, pull the trigger—want the other person dead—but Elwood had not desired that for anyone. And the taking of his own life did not balance any scales.

But…

Elwood had loved her.

He’d loved her.

And in that remarkable, singular fragment of time, that was enough.