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It began with a blind
date and almost ended with a red-headed tantrum. Can you guess whose story this is — before you come to the happy ending?
IT was a day in late May in Southern California, and whisper this gently so that the Chamber of Commerce won’t hear you, but May days in this boastful neck of the woods are more apt than not to be perfectly horrible.
This particular May day in 1937 was horrible, and then some. A woolly fog that dripped off the trees and shrouded out the hills hung tight to the ground. It was as chilly as a banker’s smile and the handsome man, driving down Hollywood Boulevard in his opulent car, felt it was a day that exactly matched his mood.
He despised himself for being in such a mood. Because he was intelligent, he knew that he had everything a man could desire, with one exception. He had health and he had wealth. He owned a beautiful ranch and a magnificent yacht. He had a town house and a beach house and a mountain lodge. He had fame and he worked almost as much as he wanted to.
The exception was that little thing that plagues all romantics. He wasn’t in love. The evidence lay in the divorce records that he was a failure at love. On screen and off, he typified what is known as a “man’s man.” He loved outdoor life, hunting, fishing, riding. When he chose, he could drink any man he had ever met under the table and still be able to drive home safely. Everyone called him a great sport, a fine mixer. But, in his secret heart, he knew anything he ever did, whether it was merely drinking a cup of coffee or extravagantly taking his yacht to some distant island, was meaningless unless he shared the experience with a girl. A beautiful, exciting girl. “Hi, boy, how about a drink?”
His manager’s voice, calling from curbside, shook Bill from his uncomfortable reverie. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” he called back. “Meet ( Continued on page 86)
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