Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

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Price only $1.00 for the paperbound edition or $2.50 for the hardbound edition. AT ALL BOOKSTORES OR MAIL THIS COUPON NOW Bartholomew House, Inc., Dept. WG-359 205 East 42 St., New York 17, N. Y. Send me a copy of HOW TO TURN EXTRA TIME INTO EXTRA MONEY. I enclose CD SI paperbound CD S2.50 hardbound. NAME (please print) ADDRESS CITY STATE sketches with him and then architects’ blueprints. And then almost every day they had walked from the small guest house that was already on the property, to see these drawings turn into solid reality, stone by stone. Bringing her car to a stop in the garage, Susan switched off the ignition, pulled the key out and sorted the frontdoor key from the bunch on the ring before she gathered up the mail, a pile of magazines and her purse which lay on the seat beside her. As she went toward the door she smiled wistfully down at the key glinting in the sun. She reached the front door, opened it and went inside to find the living room orderly and spotless. Leaving the mail on the desk, the magazines on the coffee table, Susan went into the kitchen to prepare lunch. The planning of this room had been entirely up to her, and she had tried to make it both efficient and beautiful; all in white and gold. Its airy lightness suited her present mood. As she took lettuce, fresh fruit and cottage cheese from the refrigerator, she began thinking back to a pleasant evening three years before that had turned out to be more than merely pleasant. It was during Christmastime of 1955, and she had been invited to a party at the home of Vincent Flaherty, sports columnist on a Los Angeles newspaper. The guest list casually mixed movie people and “non-pros,” so for Susan there were many unfamiliar faces. Different kinds of shop talk, cheerful chatter, snatches of gossip and laughter echoed around her. Under the red, green, gold and silver of holiday decorations, it was a good-humored group. And then she saw him, “across a crowded room.” She noticed him first because he was so tall and for the moment alone, beside the tinseled tree he looked so assured and at ease. Then people, circulating gaily, cut off her view, and she lost him in the crowd. Flaherty came toward her a while later, always the genial host. “Having a pleasant time, Susan? Like some more punch?” “This is fine, Vince. Thank you.” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the stranger walk past them. Flaherty caught him by the arm. “Oh, you two haven’t met, have you? Susan, this is Eaton Chalkley.” She looked up at the stranger. He smiled. “Merry Christmas, Miss Hayward.” She caught a soft slowness in the deeppitched voice. “Is that Dixie I hear?” “Carrolton, Georgia,” Eaton laughed. “Where’s that?” “Forty miles from Atlanta. It’s a small place, but it has been growing the last few years.” “Are you vacationing out here, Mr. Chalkley?” she asked. “No, it’s a business trip. I have a car agency in Carrolton, but my law practice takes most of my time. It brings me to the Coast pretty often. Anti-trust cases, chiefly.” She listened to his shop talk, listened respectfully, with increasing interest. It doesn’t matter what a man’s work is, she thought, because if he’s really absorbed in it, really good at it, he can make it sound fascinating. And gradually the other voices at the party faded, and she could hear only Eaton Chalkley’s. His name was Floyd Eaton Chalkey. He’d once been in the FBI. He’d been divorced twice and was the father of three children. He was forty-six, eight years older than Susan, and he was enjoying his maturity. Susan liked that, for in Hollywood she had seen too many aging “boys,” too many “girls” reaching frantically after vanishing youth. Certainly there was no time in her life that she yearned to go back to. Instead, with a sense of awaken ing, she found herself eagerly looking for , ward to the future. Looking forward to what? Three years ( ago she could not possibly have pictured , herself living contentedly in this house in Georgia. Susan went over to the easel j in the corner of the living room and un , f covered the painting she had started the j day before. Slipping into her smock which < s she kept on a hook by the easel, Susan j took out her palette and brushes and the I j box filled with tubes of oil paint. Patiently, she began to mix a blue. She was painting j ( the view from the window and the blue : was for the shadows under the trees. The countryside was waiting, awak jj ening, eagerly yet serenely. That was the 1 look Susan wanted to put on canvas. And that had been the feeling in her heart | r three years earlier. She had been waiting for something ; then, not waiting desperately and hungrily, : j but waiting serenely. Faith had returned |; ( to her. She knew happiness was not some [ thing to be greedily grasped at. It would L come as a precious gift from God, to be L accepted humbly and gratefully. And it 3 , would come first in small ways, as these ; \ buds would unfold on the trees, singly and : J slowly. Susan remembered a spring night in j 1956. It was the night of the Academy Awards, and she had invited her friends , to come to her house afterwards for a “Win j or Lose Party.” Well, she had lost. She , moved through the crush murmuring i thanks for words of sympathy, lightly , , brushing aside words that laid the sym ■ j pathy on too thick. Her gaiety might have i • been brittle and false, if there had not j , been a steady, reassuring influence in her J house that night. Eaton Chalkley was : , among her guests. Each time their eyes . met, the little golden statue she hadn’t won | seemed less and less important. His standing in his profession was high 1 ( enough to give him a choice among clients, ] and Susan smiled as she remembered what ( an unusual number of Californian cases ^ had drawn his attention that year. When j he was in town, they didn’t dine at the ], fashionable see-and-be-seen restaurants. . Nor did they haunt the so-called “hide j away” spots, which seem to be favorite L hang-outs for columnists’ informants. They j. simply went to dinner parties or informal j evenings at friends’ homes, or Susan en , tertained the group at her home. Often, the two of them would drift away to a „ corner of the room and stay there, quietly j talking, absorbed in each other. Their ( friends must have noticed, Susan thought. ( If so, friendship was put first. This new romance was not fingered for quality, . measured for size, pulled apart and ren j dered shopworn in the public prints. It remained the private property of Susan Hayward and Eaton Chalkley. It wasn’t first love — swift and sweet and j uncaring. That kind is only for the young, never to be recaptured, though it can last and change and become stronger — if the couple are lucky. Susan and Eaton had not been that fortunate in their first loves. But they made a wonderful discovery: With the years, through experience, they had grown, and now their capacity for loving was greater than ever before. And so they decided quietly to be married. They went to Phoenix, Arizona, for the ceremony. The date — February 8, 1957. The thought of that day brought Susan suddenly back to the present moment. Was their second anniversary really that close? Hmmm . . . that might explain the mysterious package Eaton had whisked out of her sight the other day. Well, she had her secret plans too. Her wedding bouquet had been a single carnation, pinned to her simple, shortsleeved silk dress. The bridal party had reached Phoenix with no pack of news 98