Photoplay (Jan - Jun 1943)

Can a woman fall in love with a man against her will? It was for Kay to answer that, alone in this house with Riley Sloane BY HELEN DOPEY MOST any girl would have envied me, assigned as a nurse to Riley Sloane, the great motion-picture star. But from the moment I had been told that he would be my case at Justin Sanatorium, an establishment that specialized in curing Hollywood's nervous breakdowns and heavy-drinking cases, I had dreaded it. It had been Chris who'd told me — -Dr. Christopher Ross, young nerve specialist on the staff, who'd been my special friend ever since I'd come there from my Texas home. "Riley Sloane is an interesting type, Kay," he'd said. Interesting Riley might be; difficult he certainly was. I'd heard from Carlotta Fane, oldtime actress at the Sanatorium, about those famous black moods of Riley's. I'd heard, too, how his name had been linked with Honey Hollister, a promising young star who'd fallen in love with him and then suddenly retired. And I came to know Riley myself in the days that followed — his sarcasm, his curtness, his open rebellions. But it was after the poorly dressed woman visitor had left and I'd learned from her how he had once saved her husband's life that I saw another side to Riley. For one brief moment, then, it was as if we understood each other — the moment when he said quietly, "If I'd only known someone like you, Kay," and then had leaned over and brushed my forehead with his lips. But the very next day, Riley had been his old self again, a bitter, contemptuous self. It had been bad enough at the Sanatorium, but when I had been sent home as a special nurse to be with him while he was working on his new 38 picture, "Losl Melody," I had felt I could stand no more. Almost any other woman would have walked barefoot over hot coals to be where I was tonight — in this beautiful bedroom in the home of Riley Sloane. Why was it that for me these moments were salted with dread? Quiet reigned in the house. I tried to read a little. I had given Riley a sedative and doubtless he was sleeping now. I was just getting into bed when the sound came — a slight scuffling noise at my door. For a moment I went rigid. Then in the dead stillness the sound came again. "Who's there?" I called. There was no answer. I went to the door and flung it open. THERE was nq one outside my room! But as I stood there in the half light, I had the feeling that the door down the hall had just closed quietly — Riley's door. I couldn't be sure, it was just an impression; but the whisper of sound still lingered in my ears. What should I do? That man was my patient. If he was ill and in need, I should go to him in spite of the fact that he could have rung the bell connecting our rooms. But if he wasn't . . . Holding my breath, I wrapped my housecoat close about me and walked down the shadowy halE. I knocked lightly. "Come in." He was lying in bed. The light was on and he had obviously not been asleep. The bright blue eyes held an inscrutable expression as he looked at me. In front of that gaze, I felt more unsure than ever. "I — I thought someone knocked. Did you — hear anything?" "No." It was flat and unanswerable, but I had the feeling it wasn't true. "At my door," I said. "I thought you might have heard — " "You dreamed it." Then as I still hesitated, he yawned. "You look very fetching in that get-up, Miss Howells, but really I'd like to go to sleep." In furious silence, I closed the door. He hadn't really felt I'd come to his room for some ulterior purpose of my own, but he enjoyed making me think so. I could picture him chuckling over my discomfiture. I got into bed and the uneasiness I'd felt at the hospital and since I'd come here swept over me again. I didn't know what I was afraid of — but I was afraid. I'd tried to tell Chris that. I lay there, staring into the darkness of my luxurious room, and dreaded tomorrow and all the tomorrows that lay ahead. . . . THE set for the famous "renunciation" love scene in "Lost Melody" was ready. Or so they said. To me, quiet as a mouse (and just about as popular) in my chair beside Riley Sloane's everything was a welter of confusing noise and blazing lights, of wires and props and costumed extras. "Grips" fell over me and muttered absent minded apologies. Assistant cameramen did things on big cranes above my head, at peril of their necks and mine. Actors stood around talking among themselves, sometimes staring at me. Riley Sloane looked straight ahead with a sardonic aloofness to everything. At least, I thought resentfully, (Continued on page 67) photoplay combhied with movie mirror