Lost in Carmel
Lost In Carmel
A Novel
Terri Lee
Contents
Quote
CARMEL
1 Scrapbooks
2 Flying and Fleeing
ROMA
3 Saint Bridget
4 Alice
5 Hair’s The Thing
6 Fine
7 Excavating
8 Make-Believe
9 The Show Must Go On
10 Secret Agent
11 Black and White
12 Spring Rain
13 Mata Hari
14 Laying a Cornerstone
15 Mary
16 Serendipity
17 Someone Else’s Life
18 James
19 Coffee Talk
20 Little Lies
21 Do I Know You?
22 Spaghetti Carbonara
23 The Gilded Cage
24 Espresso
25 Bridging the Gap
26 Plans
27 Amalfi Coast
28 Lost in the Fog
29 A Gift from a God
30 Sunday
31 Both Feet
32 Bette Davis
33 Buon Natale
34 Cat and Mouse
35 New Year
36 Mission Accomplished
37 Reunion
38 Et Tu Brute
39 Battle Cry
40 Fresh Start
41 Chalk Drawings
42 Toxic Soup
43 Evidence
44 Red Shoes
45 Arrivederci
CARMEL
46 Three Rings
47 Digging Up Bones
48 Little Girl Lost
49 Ulterior Motvies
50 Second Thoughts
51 New York
52 Reconciliation
53 Midnight Calls
54 Sins of the Mother
55 Orange
56 Peanut Butter and Jelly
57 Slip of Paper
58 This and That
59 Fresh Flames
60 Tomorrow
61 Come Rain or Shine
62 I Do
Epilogue: Gold
Grazi
About the Author
Other books by Terri Lee
Lost in Carmel
Copyright © Terri Lee 2019
* * *
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission from the author.
* * *
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
* * *
Interior Design: The Killion Group,Inc.
Cover Design: Cover Shot Creations
For my darling Jarrod, who showed me that sometimes
silver linings are Golden.
“If you are brave enough to say good-bye,
life will reward you with a new hello”
—Paulo Coelho
1 Scrapbooks
May 1988
“I had to pee.”
“I don't know why I remembered that just now. It's silly.” Natalie trailed her finger over the old photo in her hand, as if touching the static image might release its magic. “But that's my first real memory of life in show business. I had to pee.”
“That's a great line,” Sandra said as she scribbled on her note pad. “I might have to use that.”
Natalie shrugged as she stared into the distance, watching a scratchy reel-to-reel of a seven-year-old girl lined up on a bench with dozens of other Shirley Temple hopefuls. A sea of interchangeable faces, with curly hair tied up in bows, while Natalie's long dark hair refused to cooperate. All of them, blissfully unaware of what happens to the Shirley's once they'd outgrown the curls and the little girl voice. How the headlines dissolved into footnotes, as photographers turned their attention to the newest shiny thing.
Closing her eyes, she let the black and white recollection grow into a Technicolor vision. The floral notes of her mother's perfume, as Nora bent to whisper in her ear, crowded around the memory. “Pay no attention to all these cardboard cutouts,” Nora admonished. “The world isn't looking for another Shirley Temple, it's looking for Natalie Hampton.”
The little girl just nodded her dark head while her patent-leather shoes swung to the rhythm in her head. I. Have. To. Pee.
“It's fine to wander off wherever your memories lead,” Sandra interrupted the reverie. “Don't worry about keeping things in chronological order. I'll keep up.”
J. Catsby jumped onto Natalie’s lap. Unimpressed with the piles of photos, old movie magazines, and clippings Nora had meticulously squirreled away over the years, his small black nose sniffed at the bits of lunch left on her plate. She fed the old guy a bit of tuna while her hand drifted over the arch in his back to the tip of his silver tail. “Over the last couple of weeks, the memories have all been painless,” Natalie mused. “I was exactly who everyone wanted me to be.”
“Do you need to take a break?” Sandra asked.
Natalie shifted in her seat under the New-Yorker’s cool gaze, uncomfortable being a specimen under the microscope. An inconvenient fact for a woman who spent her life in front of the camera.
“As Monty's fond of saying, I've been on a break for ten years.”
Why she'd ever let Monty talk her into this, she'd never know. He'd pushed and prodded while dangling the promise of a chance to set the record straight on a decade's worth of Hollywood gossip. As her long-suffering manager, he had a dog in the race. And the truth of the matter was her bank account could use the infusion of cash.
She played the conversation in her head…
“A biography?” She'd balked at the idea. “I don't know anything about writing a book.”
Monty’d shook his head. “You won't be writing it. They'll send a ghostwriter.”
The old friends had sat on a bench mulling over the possibilities and the pitfalls, wine glasses in hand, watching the sun slip into the bay. Carmel-by-the-Sea was a storybook village perched on the side of a cliff gazing over the Pacific Ocean. Cottages with names instead of house numbers had whispered to Natalie when the Hollywood lights began to burn.
Monty called it the other end of the world, acting as if he’d been on a transatlantic flight in a single engine plane whenever he arrived after the five hour drive up California's coast on Highway One.
Natalie pulled her thin sweater tighter around her shoulders as the sun, like a grand dame of the stage, set the sky on fire before her final curtain call.
“Beautiful,” Natalie acknowledged the performance. “God, I love this place. Fill your lungs with that air, Monty.”
“No thanks. I'm from LA. I like to see the air I'm breathing.”
“I don't know why in the world I bother with you.”
“Because we're the keeper of each other's secrets.”
Natalie looked sideways at her companion, studying his profile in the shadows. Chiseled cheekbones had softened over the years, but his grin remained intact. From the very start they were two peas in a pod. In the early days, she had been Monty's champion when the Hollywood rumor mill threatened to take down his fledgling career over gossip about his sexuality. Natalie refused to budge, and it was the power of her name that lent credence to his position and the leverage to ride out the storm. He returned the favor by challenging her with a question.
>
“Do you want to be Sandra Dee for the rest of your life, or do you want to be a serious actress?”
With Monty at the helm he steered her away from the virginal characters Nora favored, right into an Academy Award. If only she’d listened to Monty concerning other decisions in her life, there might not be a need for a book to set the record straight.
“Speaking of secrets…” Natalie frowned at her companion. “It's 1988, why would anyone want to read that stuff, now, after all these years? Who'd care?”
“Are you kidding?” Monty turned in his seat. “America's sweetheart, Natalie Hampton, finally tells all. You can serve it up on a platter.”
“Like John the Baptist's head?”
“With a side of fries.”
“Neither the public nor the publisher are interested in America’s Sweetheart.” Natalie ignored his attempt at humor. “What they crave are the scandalous details of when their darling girl fell off her pedestal and landed with a thud.”
“Well, that goes without saying. But if you’re telling the story you get to orchestrate the thud.”
Natalie lifted her shoulders in a noncommittal reply. “Besides, America's Sweetheart is an old story, Monty.”
“I remember it like it was yesterday.”
“You don't even remember what you had for lunch.”
“I never remember what I had for lunch, only who I had lunch with.”
“Touché.”
What she remembered were all the times he’d stood toe to toe with studio heads demanding top pay for the young woman who filled their pockets with box office receipts. When push came to shove, he was a man she could count on. Maybe the only man.
He wanted her to write this damn book, and maybe she owed him that much. She had a lot to make up for…
Now she sat across the weathered teak table in a shady spot of the garden, sifting through her life like a prospector and handing the shiny nuggets over to her biographer. Sandra Chase's pale blonde hair was pulled back in a half-hearted ponytail. Translucent skin that looked out of place in the California light, free of any make-up. Even the glasses perched on top of her head were colorless. Nondescript. As if Central Casting had been told to send over a ghost-writer.
“Shall we continue?” Sandra turned her attention back to the yellow legal pad on her lap while the tape recorder, waiting to be fed, continued to blink at Natalie. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”
Catsby, bored with the conversation, jumped from her lap in search of a sunny spot on the stone pavers and Natalie brushed silver hair from her black pants. “Now you sound like my therapist.”
“Writing is a bit like therapy,” Sandra said. “You have to peel back the layers to get to the truth.”
“More like picking at a scab.”
“That too,” Sandra managed a smile.
A corner of a faded clipping beckoned from the pile in front of Natalie. Shaky fingers pulled yesterday’s news out into the light. Old words still stung.
“It all seems so far away. It almost feels like someone else’s life,” Natalie said as her fingers traced the headline.
* * *
May 10,1977
Los Angeles
* * *
It’s Not Gossip If It’s True
By Theadora Barrett
* * *
Come closer my lovelies and I'll share a juicy secret from the back-lots at Paramount. It seems Natalie Hampton has been missing from the set of her latest movie for several days. Of course, it's Hollywood legend that Miss Hampton disappears more often than Houdini. But this time, someone close to the reclusive star hints that things may be different.
According to my insider, it's been all out war on the set of The House on Fremont, with tempers flaring and tantrums being thrown like grenades. Looks like the making of this psychological thriller has taken its toll on everyone involved, including Hampton's husband/manager who made the ill-fated decision to bankroll this nightmare. The usually firm-handed director, Ken Otto, can't seem to corral his talent and wrap this thing up. Now, his misplaced star only adds to the production woes for this money-pit of a movie, already woefully behind schedule.
You didn't hear it from me, but some say pulling the plug might be the best thing to happen to this beleaguered film which has suffered from no shortage of bad press since its pre-production days. Bad news for Mr. Otto but delicious tidbits for the rest of us.
Until next time, darlings
Thea
* * *
Natalie sighed as she handed the clipping to Sandra. “I was going to say, this was the beginning of my unraveling, but the truth is, that spool had been coming undone for quite some time.”
“Are you ready to talk about it?”
“That’s what I signed on for. I better deliver the goods.” Natalie shook her head. “Too bad old Theadora Barrett isn’t around anymore, to hear my side of things. Not that she ever let a little thing like the truth get in the way of a good story.”
Sinking back in the chair, the dark memories curled up in her lap, waiting for Natalie to unfold them, as if lining them up in a neat row with fresh labels would make sense of them.
“Well, Thea was right about one thing… I was AWOL.”
Sandra bent over her notes. “Let’s start there.”
2 Flying and Fleeing
May 1977
Lights from the City of Angels spread out like a magic carpet to the horizon where they met up with the stars. Specks of gold danced and shimmered against the inky backdrop before being swallowed by the darkness. It was only then as the private jet climbed high into the night sky, with the city falling away beneath her, that Natalie felt she could breathe again.
“Can I get you anything, ma'am?” the stewardess asked.
“She'd like a glass of water, please,” Janice spoke up.
Would I? Natalie turned from away from the window to stare at the private nurse Monty had sent along.
Janice shook two yellow pills from a small bottle. “Here, this will help you sleep. And when you wake up, we'll be in Rome.” She spoke in a low monotone, keeping her words soft and round as if the tone of her voice might cause Natalie to shatter into pieces if she wasn't careful.
The woman's misplaced cheerfulness made the offering on an outstretched palm seem more like a poison apple than sleeping pills, but Natalie took them anyway and swallowed like a good little girl. Just like she'd done for the last four days as a hawk-eyed Nurse Ratchett watched to ensure the medley of pills slid down her throat instead of being tucked in her cheek to spit out later. At least now she was no longer required to stick out her tongue for inspection.
Closing her eyes, she turned her head, shutting out the nurse in her plain blue dress that fooled no one with her attempts at an undercover role. Shut out the pretty stewardess whose sideways glances at her famous passenger didn't go unnoticed. Even shutting out Chloe, always more a friend than an assistant. Chloe had her nose buried in a book, but Natalie could feel her gaze sliding over her whenever Chloe thought she wasn’t looking. Everyone was always looking.
Everyone reaching out to grab a piece. Can't they see I don't have any pieces left?
Her head leaning on the seat-back, she tucked the soft blanket up around her shoulders and stared out the window into the blackness. Hurtling through the dark, suspended between here and there, her distorted reflection stared back at her. Reaching up she pulled down the little plastic shade, unwilling to look at the face she no longer knew.
“Are we there?” Natalie asked as commotion in the cabin stirred her awake.
Chloe leaned over, placing her hand on Natalie's knee. “No. We've stopped to refuel. They said it won't take long, but I'm going to get some fresh air. Want to join me?”
Natalie pulled up her window shade and looked out onto the dark tarmac. Men were scurrying around the plane, signaling a large truck loaded with fifty-five-gallon barrels into position for the refueling.
“No.” She shook her head, her tongue
thick against the roof of her mouth. “Where are we, anyway?”
“Goosebay, Canada.”
“Goose? Bay?”
“I know.” Chloe grinned. “But the stewardess says this is a common stopover for smaller jets before we cross the pond.” She was standing now and shrugging into her sweater. “Sure you don't want to come?”
Natalie sank back against the butter-soft, leather seat. “I'm good.”
She watched as Chloe and Janice descended the steps together, wind whipping strands of hair out of the neat bun at the back of Janice’s head. The captain and his first officer followed, heading towards a large Quonset building, the Captain tucking his head into the wind, holding onto his cap for good measure.
I could step off the plane right here. Disappear into the night and start a new life. Would anyone come looking for me in a place called Goosebay?
Instead she snuggled deeper under the blanket, too exhausted to make her move. A quick glance at her watch told her it was one a.m., Los Angeles time. It was easy to lose track of hours sleeping through time zones.
It was more than the loss of a few hours; she'd lost track of days. Days spent holed up in The Beverly Hills Hotel morphed into days in the psychiatric wing at Cedars Sinai after Monty answered her frantic call for help.
Much of the detail had been lost in the fog of those days, disjointed and unattached images would pirouette in front of her and then disappear behind the curtain. But one image had crystallized. She squeezed her eyes shut against the disembodied likeness of her husband; Stan's face looked back at her with a cold and impersonal sneer.
It was an old friend’s phone number her fingers remembered when she couldn't remember anything else. Of course, it was Monty she called. Not her mother. Not Chloe. And certainly not her husband. She’d lost Monty for a while, but when she cried out, it was he who came running.