Photoplay (Jan - Jun 1943)

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Called Blondex.it takes but I 1 minutes for a glorious shampoo that you can do at home Gives hair attractive luster and highlights — keeps that just -shampooed look for a whole week Safe, fine for children's hair. Sold at 10c, drug and department stores. 80 The next day, on one last flickering hope, I went to the address the woman at the hospital had given me that day. I'd found it in my bag: Mrs. Ben Chapman, on Ventura. "If he should ever need anything," she'd said. The house was a cheap little stucco bungalow. The door was closed and no one answered my ringing. The flickering hope died out. There was an item in Prudence Vickers's column that evening. "About the town . . . Kay Howells and Dr. Christopher Ross, witnesses at Honey Hollister's tragic death, having a quiet cup of coffee at Rossi's last night. Dr. Ross leaves for the East on Sunday and Miss Howells says she will follow soon to take a position there. Riley Sloane is still in strictest seclusion . . ." There it was again, all the insinuations to be read between the lines if you wanted. I didn't care. I'd gotten so used to seeing my name in print that way, it didn't matter any more. One thing I could laugh over — a position in the East. It sounded so important, as if I had only to choose among the many flung at my feet. I'd be lucky to get anything at all. I WAS telling Miss Fane about it Sunday morning as I fixed breakfast for us. The maid was gone for the day (it's so much cozier without her," she'd said) and while she set the table in the sunny dining nook I scrambled eggs in the kitchen. The aging actress had long since ceased to be a famous name to me; she was like a beloved aunt. ". . . there just aren't many jobs for nurses now, poor things," I was saying over my shoulder. "I loathe nurses," a voice said behind me. I froze — with the egg fork in one hand and the butter plate in the other. Suddenly I was back in a room at Justin Sanatorium, looking at a wreck of a man, hearing his lazy voice say those same insolent words. I turned slowly. Riley Sloane was leaning against the door, looking at me. A blue turtle-neck sweater set off the breadth of the heavy shoulders; his dark hair was rumpled by the wind, and his face, though lines of pain bit deeply into the corners of his mouth, was calm and clear-eyed. He grinned. "I hope you're having fatted calf for breakfast. The prodigal has come back." "Where have you been?" I murmured stupidly. "At the Chapmans'." "But I went there! Yesterday. I — " "I saw you, precious. I didn't answer the door because I hadn't finished working out something that had to be worked out. I was afraid you might make it harder. Then last night — presto, all the pieces fell into place and here I am." "Well, I hope you're satisfied. You've given everybody fits for a week." I said tartly. I couldn't let him know how I'd worried. "We thought you were hiding out with a bottle somewhere." He looked more serious than I'd ever seen him. "I tried that, but it didn't work. I found out it won't ever work any more. You and the doc fixed that for me." I heard steps tiptoeing through the dining room, then a door close stealthily, and a radio turned on. Miss Fane was making a perfect exit. "But the funeral, Riley. If you weren't drunk — " "I was at the funeral." Suddenly, like a flashback at a movie, I saw the old butler alone in a back pew. He saw what I was thinking. "That was me. I'm not an actor for nothing, my dear. For a while, I was afraid you and Carlotta would recognize me. It was the only way I could go and — well, I had to go. After all, she was my wife." "I'm glad," I said simply. "But now — what smoked you out finally? Did you get bored?" I was acting hard to cover up the pounding of my heart and the choked feeling in my throat. "This smoked me out." He held out a crumpled clipping. I recognized it as the item about Chris and me in Prudence Vickers's column. "This decided me about a lot of things." "I suppose it decided you to try to throw me into Chris's arms again, as you've tried to do all along," I said bitterly. "I suppose you're going to insist I leave with him tonight. . . ." Then and then only did he move. In one long stride he was beside me, his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. "No. I told you I'd figured out a lot of things this week. The main one is I know I'm good enough for you and I'm good enough to fight any guy for you, and I will! I came here to tell you you're going to marry me and nobody else and there'll be no more talk about going East with the doc!" That time my heart did stop beating. I know it did. I stared up at him dumbly and then pulled myself together. "And haven't I got anything to say about it?" "No. Look, Kay — I've been fighting against you a long time. Since that day in the hospital, to be exact. I thought I was no good for any woman, least of all you, and at the same time I wanted you as I've never wanted anybody. I started to tell you the night we went to my house. I even knocked at your door. And then — I couldn't. There was Honey, for one thing, and that was a mess. And there was what I'd done to myself. You'd made me believe in something again and it scared me. I didn't know how long I could hold that belief. When you answered that knock, my courage failed me. I ran like a scared kid and climbed into bed and when you came I sent you away when what I wanted was to kiss you. And the time at the studio, when you wanted to quit. I couldn't let you quit, Kay. So I taunted you into staying. And I kept on taunting you, making life hell for you, because — oh, my darling, because I love you so!" Canteen scene: Eddie Cantor broadcasts with bright Dinah Shore, the Hollywood Canteen's "favorite canary" photoplay combined with MOVIE mirror