Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1936)

Had she been betrayed — a helpless pawn in the hands of Hollywood's movie magnates — or did Paul really love her? (Final Installment) SO, swiftly, Sue Martin and Paul Elsmere were married; and Sue listened to the words of the marriage service with a strange feeling of solemnity, an awakening wonder and a deepening sense of reverence . . . "For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health ... to love and honor . . . till death do us part . . ." Her eyes filled suddenly, and she knew exactly why people cried at weddings. Her own feelings seemed too intense for a mortal world. She knew, now, what love was — this miracle, this emotion she and Paul shared; this promise and solemn pledge they were both making. The same plane carried them back to Glendale. Here, they again entered Paul's roadster and Paul looked at her and said: "Palm Springs, next stop, Mrs. Elsmere." That was a day of poignant enchantment that Sue Martin was destined never to forget. She sat at her husband's side, mute with a new found happiness, a soft afterglow on her lovely face. In after years, when Paul Elsmere thought of that day, and the sight of her sitting there beside him, it would pluck at his heartstrings. They registered at the hotel in Palm Springs that night "Mr. and Mrs. Paul Elsmere." A flutter went through the fashionable lobby. While Sue was unknown to the fashionable Hollywood crowd that patronized the hotel, Paul Elsmere was an international celebrity. Paul had taken a suite of rooms. Sue looked around her after the bellboy had left the grips. "I — I — feel nervous," she confessed. Paul smiled confidently to her. " Make yourself as comfortable as possible," he advised gently. He picked up his grip. "I'll use the next room," he said and walked out. Sue closed the communicating door — almost. She went to the window and looked out. Nothing to be seen there but the blue loom of the hills against the luminous desert night. The lights, below, were moonstones in a purple mist. She heard Paul moving around in the other room. He had SCRIPT GIRLS PREFER HUSBANDS By S. GORDON GURWIT opened her grip. She turned to unpack it. A gradually mounting excitement caused her blood to pound in her throat. This was an awful trousseau! A worn pair of silk pajamas, a robe that had seen its best days. She shrugged and picked them up. There was a bathroom of her own. She went in and closed the door. Twenty minutes later, when she came out, she had the look of a thoroughly scrubbed cherub. She went to the dresser mirror and applied a bit of lipstick. Her eyes were luminous and very young. The honey-colored hair framed her face like a soft nimbus. And, all at once, she was horribly frightened. When Paul knocked at the door, the lipstick fell from her stiff fingers. He said: "May I come in, Mrs. Elsmere?" "Yes," she answered, and her lips were oddly immobile, though she was trembling. He opened the door and came in — and stopped. She saw his pleasant good looks now, with a new and acute vision. "Good Lord!" he said softly. "You're beautiful, darling!" His suavity was contradicted by trembling fingers. "Paul!" she whispered, brokenly, her eyes blind with sudden tears. The cigarette dropped from his fingers. She was in his arms, closely held, a soft flame, glorious in surrender; and he was murmuring over her, a thousand prodigal names of love. When she smiled up at him, shyly, he caught his breath, for he knew that she loved him and was lost in the innocence and helplessness of dreams. The battered shores of his badgered soul were inundated for the first time since a dim boyhood, under the soft wash of her wet eyes; and a mist spread in his own, blindingly, surprisingly. TOWARD dawn, when she awoke in his arms, she whispered his name. He was not asleep. He smiled at her, and she snuggled her cheek against his shoulder. "Paul," she whispered, with an overwhelming realization of their oneness. "Paul — doesn't it seem — that we were destined for each other — since the beginning of time? To meet, finally — to love one another? All my life seems to have been directed toward this moment . ." He smiled sleepily. "I know. I feel the same way, sweet. I think — I must have loved you always — since the beginning of time — 'When I was a king in Babylon' — " " 'And I was a Christian slave,' " she finished softly. "I didn't dream anyone could be (his happy . . ." It was impossible, she found, to crystallize her emotions into mere words. The cool, desert dawn was vocal with the first, tentative calls of half-awakened birds. She closed her eyes, and her face was serene with an ethereal happiness, a sense of rich fulfillment. Paul closed his eyes again and slept heavily. Three weeks went by. The news had spread. Hollywood came to Palm Springs to wish them luck. Celebrities descended by the score, from every branch of endeavor of the Land of the Fabled Follies. Paul Elsmere, star of stellar magnitude, rated it. Kessler came, jubilant, looking more than ever like some monastical puck. Bill Lederer came, reserved, terse, intent on his new picture and on Peggy Storm. Alma Allen came with her husband. Good wishes were showered upon Sue and Paul. Jimmy Frost, the Hollywood columnist, was at Palm Springs. It was Jimmy": inveterate love of gossip that shocked Sue out of her happiness with the abrupt suddenness of calamity 58