Marabelle

By Jennifer Wilde

New York Times–bestselling author Jennifer Wilde’s dishy and delightful novel about a world-famous star is loosely based on the life of Tallulah Bankhead

Three-year-old Marabelle Lawrence makes her first headline when she climbs onto the roof of her apartment building and waits to be rescued. Edward C. Hunt is enchanted by the budding star’s attention-getting hijinks, and the two become instant friends. Many years later, they go their separate ways, Edward to Princeton to become a great writer and Marabelle to New York to become a star. But their relationship spans decades of Marabelle’s tumultuous life—on and off the stage and screen.

Sweeping from Alabama to New York, London to Hollywood, Marabelle delivers an unforgettable portrait of a larger-than-life personality, brilliantly capturing the frightened, vulnerable woman behind the flamboyant persona and the pathos beneath the drunken binges, passionate love affairs, and failed suicide attempts. With its cast of endearing characters, including real-life celebrities Noël Coward, Cole Porter, Dorothy Parker, Marlene Dietrich, and Gary Cooper, here is a vivid depiction of a place and time that will never come again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Mar 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781497698222

Jennifer Wilde

Jennifer Wilde is the pseudonym under which Tom E. Huff (1938–1990) wrote his groundbreaking New York Times–bestselling historical romance novels, including the Marietta Danver Trilogy (Love’s Tender Fury, Love Me, Marietta, and When Love Commands). Huff also wrote classic Gothic romances as Edwina Marlow, Beatrice Parker, Katherine St. Clair, and T. E. Huff. A native of Texas who taught high school English before pursuing a career as a novelist, Huff was honored with a Career Achievement Award from Romantic Times in 1988.

Book preview

1

Alabama 1916

The first time I laid eyes on Marabelle Lawrence she was climbing out of an attic window and scurrying up a drainpipe, chubby knees gripping the pipe, chubby behind protruding into space. I put down my battered copy of Huckleberry Finn and moved over to the sitting-room window, amazed, alarmed and frankly envious as I watched the audacious creature clamber up onto the roof of the sprawling Victorian mansion next door. In middy blouse and navy blue bloomers, she looked like a rotund elf, short honey-colored locks framing a merry, moon-shaped face. Nimbly scooting up the slanting roof to the chimney stack, she leaned her back against the bricks, drew her knees up, folded her arms over them and waited.

I had no idea what she was waiting for, but I continued to watch with a combination of suspense and critical objectivity. The slant of the roof was unusually steep. She might well start slipping and fall crashing down into the flower beds below. That wasn’t something I’d care to miss, and after six readings I was pretty well bored with Huck, Jim and crew. I knew who she was, of course. The house next door was owned by the celebrated Washington attorney Jonathan Lawrence and had been closed and shuttered for seven years, ever since he departed for the Capital with his spinster sister and three-year-old daughter in tow. Four days ago Ava Nell Lawrence and her niece had come back to take up residence, creating quite a stir. I’d been away at camp when the moving vans arrived, but ever since returning yesterday morning I’d heard strange noises emanating from that long-deserted house.

There had been yells and husky, diabolical laughter, and late last night there had been a stupendous crash, followed by more of that strange, chilling laughter. I had seen Miss Ava Nell Lawrence returning from the grocery store yesterday afternoon, a tall, slender woman with vague blue eyes and graying brown hair worn in a wispy bun at the back of her neck. With a twelve-year-old’s clear sense of logic, I had concluded that she was demented, spared the State Institution only because her brother was one of Alabama’s most prominent native sons. Now, as I watched her niece, I concluded that it was the daughter who was demented, not the sister.

Ten minutes passed, perhaps fifteen, and then there was a great clanging noise as an enormous red fire truck came racing down the street, slamming to a halt in front of the Lawrence house. Neighbors rushed out to watch as robust firemen in full uniform leaped from the truck, hoisting a ladder into the air. A crowd of spectators gathered eagerly in the yard as the ladder was extended and propped up against the side of the house. I saw Miss Ava Nell talking excitedly to the Fire Chief, her cheeks chalk white, her thin hands clasped together in a gesture of entreaty. The Chief gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder, but Ava Nell didn’t look at all encouraged as one of the men started up the ladder.

Marabelle sat primly with her back propped against the chimney, clearly enjoying every moment of the ruckus she was causing. When the fireman reached the roof, she cried out with relief and, incredibly enough, tears began to spill down her cheeks, sparkling prettily in the late morning sunshine. She flung her arms around her savior’s neck, sobbing, clinging to him quite dramatically as he began his precarious descent.

Marabelle made her first headline that day. JONATHAN LAWRENCE’S DAUGHTER RESCUED the evening paper announced in bold black type on the front page. I’m sure she kicked herself for not arranging to have photographers on hand as well, and I know she was peeved that her aunt wouldn’t allow her to be interviewed. Ava Nell rushed her into the house. The fire truck left. The crowd dispersed. A couple of hours later there was another stupendous crash and, instead of the laughter, hoarse shouting that went on for a good quarter of an hour, ending in a bloodcurdling shriek. I was convinced a murder had been committed, and I waited anxiously for the police cars and ambulance, fully expecting to see Miss Ava Nell’s limp, bleeding body being carried out on a stretcher, but no such drama occurred.

My own aunt, Aunt Mildred, declared that she found the whole thing disgusting as we sat at the dinner table that night. It was absurd for a child that age to receive so much attention, she informed me, casting a rueful eye at the headline. It couldn’t do anything but go to her head and, she added, from what she’d heard Miss Marabelle Lawrence was already much too taken with herself. Not only was the child spoiled rotten, she was also as conceited as they come, always babbling about her important father, telling folks how he’d dined at the White House, how he was going into politics himself. She was impudent, sassed her elders, showed off something terrible and was a smart aleck to boot. Aunt Mildred well remembered how, at two and three, the child threw herself to the floor in screaming temper tantrums. Nothing would stop her but a bucket of water in the face, and then the little wretch would hold her breath until she turned blue.

Aunt Mildred had heaved a sigh of relief when the Lawrences moved away to Washington and, frankly, she wished they’d never come back. She pitied the poor teachers when school resumed in September, and she told me I’d be wise indeed if I made a wide circle around the outrageous little hussy. She didn’t forbid me to have anything to do with our new neighbor—Aunt Mildred didn’t believe in forbidding things, felt it only encouraged children to misbehave—, but she indicated that she would be extremely pleased if I steered clear of the attorney’s daughter. She realized there were no children my own age in the neighborhood, no one for me to pal around with for the rest of the summer, but I had my books, a dandy bicycle and an enormous yard to play in and that should be sufficient. She thanked the Good Lord every night that I was such a serious, well-behaved child, content with his own company and a joy and delight in every way.

I could hardly wait to meet Marabelle. Aunt Mildred was an amiable soul who dearly loved children, loved to hug them, remembered their birthdays, actually baked cookies just for the wee tots, and if she thought Marabelle was wicked then Marabelle had to be a remarkable creature indeed. She was clearly a terror and, in my eyes, already imbued with a certain glamour and mystique, just what was needed to relieve the late-summer doldrums. The anticipated meeting took place the next afternoon, and it was memorable indeed.

I was in the back yard, under the chinaberry tree, industriously nailing together planks of lumber I’d discovered behind the garage. Aunt Mildred was one of the first women in the South to drive her own car. She owned a formidable Model-T Ford and drove it with considerable verve, endangering the life of any hapless pedestrian who happened to be in the immediate area, and the planks I was putting together had been casually disengaged from the side of the house as she was returning from one of her jaunts, goggles and dust veil in place. It was a sultry afternoon and the air was scented with summer roses. I wore rumpled brown shorts, soiled brown and yellow jersey, and no shoes. I never wore shoes in the summer if I could avoid it, an eccentricity Aunt Mildred reluctantly indulged, though she forever grumbled about hookworms and rusty nails and probable death from both.

Intent on my work, my head full of dreams of glorious adventure on the Great Mississippi, I didn’t see Marabelle scramble over the picket fence that separated our two yards. When she spoke, I almost dropped my hammer, startled out of my dreams and brought back to reality with a jolt. Her voice could do that even then.

I know who you are, she said without preamble. "You’re Edward C. Hunt, C. for Clark, and your parents died in the flu epidemic and you came to live with your aunt in January, a charming lady, I hear, and you’re very polite and well-behaved and read a lot of books and never cause any grief. You’re twelve years old, two years older than me, but we’re going to be in the same grade anyway because I’m frightfully bright and precocious. I was born here, born in that very house, but Daddy went to Washington when I was three and naturally took me with him but now I’ve come back to live with my aunt in the old homestead. She isn’t married either, who’d have her? so we have that in common already, both of us poor motherless mites. At least I have a father. He’s—"

I know who he is! I growled.

"It isn’t that he doesn’t want us to live with him in Washington, mind you, it’s just that Washington is no fit place to bring up a child and he’s so busy all the time and I was always getting into trouble. He figured I needed to spend my formative years in a genteel atmosphere and Ava Nell agreed wholeheartedly and it isn’t as though we won’t see him, he’ll come to visit us all the time. My granddaddy on Daddy’s side fought in the war with General Robert E. Lee, did you know that? And granddaddy Stephens, my mother’s Daddy, had his house burned down by Sherman and his dear sweet sister was raped by the Yankees a number of times. Our blood is as blue as you’ll find in all Alabama, ask anyone."

I’m impressed.

Marabelle flashed a roguish smile. She was utterly preposterous, short and chubby with shaggy honey-blonde locks that looked like they’d been cut off with a pair of shears. Her eyes were enormous, a deep, deep violet-blue, and her mouth was much too large, a wide pink slash. To say that she was vivacious would be a shocking understatement. She was vibrant, aglow, literally bursting with life, charged with vitality that seemed to crackle and sizzle like an electrical force. Her voice, of course, was not to be believed. I suspected those early tantrums had damaged her vocal cords.

I suppose you heard all the commotion yesterday, she continued. "I was sitting there in the house bored out of my mind and Ava Nell was making strawberry preserves and I decided to liven things up a little. I made a phone call to the fire station and told them a little girl was trapped up on the roof at 917 Shady Oak Road and then I climbed on up. It was frightfully exciting. I was rescued by the nicest fireman. He had body odor something awful, but what can you expect? I got my name in the papers. I made the headlines. Daddy will be ever so pleased. He’ll probably show the clipping to all the congressmen and senators, maybe even the President. ‘My little girl,’ he’ll say. ‘She’s a caution.’ I was kicked out of six private schools in five months. ‘Marabelle’s altogether too precocious,’ they told him. ‘Her mind’s too quick. She’s too easily distracted and refuses to concentrate.’ As a result, I was always getting into trouble, but I intend to be a brilliant student when I start to school here in September, just to show him how I can shine if I want to. What are you doing?"

Making a raft.

"You’re going to run away from home! What a marvelous idea! I’ll come with you. Running away from home’s one of my favorite things. Ava Nell has hysterics every single time. Where’ll we go? I’ll sneak back home and make us a sack lunch. Maybe I can even steal a bottle of wine from the cupboard in the back hall. Ava Nell nips, you see. Poor dear, who can blame her, living in the shadow of her famous brother all these years and having to put up with me as well. I didn’t know there was a river in town, but you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m an excellent swimmer. If it starts to sink I’ll get you safely back to shore."

"There isn’t a river, and I’m not planning to run away from home. I’m making a raft simply because I happen to like rafts."

"Perhaps we can go to the movies then. I saw Birth of a Nation five times in Washington. I was always going to the movies and driving Ava Nell berserk when I got home because I’d imitate all the actors and say all their lines and make up new ones if I didn’t like what they flashed on the screen. I want your honest opinion, you needn’t be afraid of hurting my feelings, do you think I resemble Mary Pickford? Forget about the hair. It used to hang down in bouncy curls. I whacked ’em off. What do you think? Look at the mouth."

I don’t think you look anything like Mary Pickford.

"Thank God for that. Theda Bara’s more my style. The eyes. I use mascara all the time, eye shadow, too, and when I’ve got ’em really made up you would swear I was Theda. What I came over for, actually, was to invite you to my birthday party Tuesday afternoon. I’ll be ten years old. My first decade’s been memorable, I expect the next to be sensational. Daddy’s going to come back home for the party. He wouldn’t miss it for the world. I suppose the local reporters will want to interview him and ask him for the inside story about Warren G. and Nan Britton, questions like do they really do it in the White House broom closet while a secret service man stands guard."

Do what? I inquired.

"You mean you don’t know?" she exclaimed.

I gave her a blank look, and Marabelle threw her head back and roared with laughter. It was an astounding noise, particularly when one considered that it was coming from the throat of a chubby female child not yet ten, not yet even a full four feet tall. It started with a deep rumble, and instead of going higher and higher as one would expect, it grew lower and lower, somehow growing louder and louder at the same time. It was diabolical indeed, enough to make even the bravest of men sleep with a night light. It ended abruptly, and Marabelle seized my hand and smiled her roguish smile.

Oh, Eddie, she declared, squeezing my hand, "you’ve got so much to learn, and I’m just the girl to teach you. You and I are going to be marvelous chums!"

I had expected adamant protests, but it turned out that Aunt Mildred was not at all opposed to my attending Marabelle’s birthday party. She and Ava Nell Lawrence had met, had discovered they had much in common and had already become fast friends. According to my aunt, Ava Nell was a True Southern Gentlewoman with all the old graces, and it was shocking, absolutely shocking that such a genteel soul had to put up with that frightful monster of a child. Both women had decided that I might be a Very Good Influence on Marabelle. With my good manners and strong sense of decorum as an example, the wretch might give up some of her wicked ways. It was worth a shot at any rate, and our friendship was encouraged.

I wore my Sunday best for the party. My Sunday best was polished black pumps, long white stockings, navy blue knickers with matching jacket, white shirt and red bow tie. I hated it, particularly the knickers, but at least I was spared the Buster Brown haircut usually associated with the outfit. I was in a defensive mood as I stepped onto the verandah of the Lawrence house and knocked on the front door. I was sure Marabelle would laugh when she saw me dressed up like this, and if she did I planned to hit her and take back my present, a beautifully illustrated copy of Treasure Island.

Marabelle, honey, it’s Edward Hunt, Ava Nell called pleasantly, showing me into the foyer.

Ava Nell patted me on the head, smiled a distracted smile and went on down the hall to the kitchen. I waited for Marabelle, lips pressed tight, eyes hard, ready to start swinging if she so much as chuckled. Several moments passed, and then Marabelle sidled reluctantly into the foyer, a hesitant look in her eyes, her cheeks bright pink with embarrassment. She looked at me. I looked at her. She was wearing a white lace dress absolutely awash with ruffles, a baby blue satin sash at her waist, an enormous blue satin bow perched atop her head. I forgot my own attire and fought hard to hold back my laughter.

"Don’t you dare snicker, Edward C. Hunt! I’ll slap your face so hard your ears will ring! Can you believe this garb? Ava Nell insisted I wear it, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I thought what the hell, I might as well humor the old girl. She’s worked her fingers to the bone getting this party set up. You’ve never seen so many balloons. I feel like I should be standing on top of a wedding cake, and you look like you belong right up there beside me. Why do they do it?"

The other kids’ll look just as bad, I told her.

"That’s some consolation. I don’t know any of them. Ava Nell talked to your aunt and your aunt gave her a list and she started calling parents. I suppose they’ll all be frightfully prim and dull, children from the Best Families. I had a lot of friends in Washington, real corkers, every last one of them. Sophisticated. Chic. The Swedish ambassador’s son was sleeping with the family maid. He’s thirteen. Senator Marlowe’s daughter is only twelve and she’s already sniffing cocaine. It’s the thing to do, you understand. I’ve done it myself. Is that a present you’ve got there? It looks like a book."

"Treasure Island," I admitted.

"I read that years ago, but thanks anyway. I’ll put it on the buffet. You’re the first one here, and frankly, I’m relieved. We’ll give each other moral support. Don’t you hate parties? Kid parties, I mean. I attended some elegant functions with Daddy. Caviar. Gold plates. Herds of footmen. Come on into the study. We’ll chat while we wait for the others to arrive. Did anyone ever tell you you have gorgeous eyes?"

Of course not.

"You do, dear, such solemn eyes, so big, so brown. I like your hair, too. I was always a fool for wavy brown hair. I don’t know why I should be so nervous. I don’t care if they like me or not. Bunch of sticks, probably. Screamingly provincial. What are they like?"

I don’t know any of them very well, I replied. I just moved here last January, you know, just went to school the spring semester. All my friends are in Atlanta.

"That’s right. You’re from Georgia. I really am sorry about your parents, Eddie, but life’s rough and you’ve got your Aunt Mildred. She’s a dear and I’m sure you’re a comfort to her. This is the study. There are over two thousand books, most of them Daddy’s. If you ever want to borrow any, feel free. Dull, most of ’em, though there are a couple on Ancient Rome that’ll make your eyes pop out. Sue somebody. All about the twelve Caesars. That’s Daddy up there."

Marabelle peered up at the painting of her father that hung over the fireplace, and her violet-blue eyes were filled with a longing painful to behold. She seemed terribly small at that moment, frail and vulnerable and utterly defenseless. Jonathan Lawrence gazed down at us with austere blue eyes, his handsome features cool, his thick brown hair silvered at the temples. He looked superbly capable and confident, but I found the face in the painting extremely formidable.

Isn’t he distinguished? she said. "Frightfully handsome, too, for a man in his late forties. He and Mother had me late in life, you know. She was much too old to have a child, but Daddy wanted a son so desperately. He loved her dearly, dearly. It was such a tragedy, and I’m the result of it. Did I tell you he’s coming to the party? He is. Right before we left Washington I reminded him today was my birthday and told him we’d have a party and he promised he’d try to make it. He’s horribly busy, you know, but he wouldn’t miss my birthday for the world. I know for a fact he’s got two weeks’ vacation coming—he works for all those senators and congressmen, on retainer, they work him to death—and besides, he’ll want to see what we’ve done with the house. Is that someone at the door? I’m scared, Eddie."

She took my hand and squeezed it so tightly I was sure she had crushed a couple of fingers, and then she let go, gave a nervous little laugh and marched into the hall to greet the half-dozen children who had arrived en masse. She literally glowed with charm and hospitality, telling them she was so pleased to meet them and wasn’t this fun and she just knew she was going to love it here with so many enchanting new friends, and they looked at her suspiciously and looked at each other and gave her thumbs down before she’d caught her first breath. Ava Nell beamed and smiled and ushered us all into the sitting room festooned with balloons and strands of fluttering colored paper.

The buffet was soon piled high with presents, the room soon crowded with children as more and more arrived. Ava Nell rushed about filling dishes with nuts and bonbons and making pleasant comments and inquiring about parents and relatives, and Marabelle worked furiously at being hostess, and it was disastrous. The more she sparkled, the quieter they grew, and after an hour or so the air literally crackled with hostility. Ava Nell insisted we play games and we pinned the tail on the donkey and played Guess Who and the atmosphere grew more and more oppressive and Marabelle kept glancing at the clock and dashing to the window every time a car came down the street and her guests kept making whispered comments behind her back. Two hours passed and Ava Nell came marching in with an enormous birthday cake, smiling a strained smile now, laughing nervously.

"Isn’t that a gorgeous cake? Marabelle exclaimed. I declare, I’ve never seen such a scrumptious-looking creation. Everyone has to have a big piece. Do you think we ought to cut it before Daddy gets here? There’s ice cream, too, chocolate and vanilla both. I wonder where he is? It’s after three. I guess I might as well cut it. I’m sure you’re all famished. Here. Eddie, help pass it around. Now I don’t want anyone to sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ It’s much too silly. Give Linda Sue a piece. Annette next. Ladies first. You boys will just have to wait."

Her hand trembled as she hacked at the cake and placed the crumbling slices on plates. I passed the plates around, detesting each and every recipient, vowing I’d get back at them somehow, and Ava Nell brought out dishes of ice cream and there was dead silence as everyone ate. A car rattled down the street. Marabelle went to the window and looked out, and when she turned around there was a brave smile on her lips and her eyes were filled with a strange sparkle. Her white lace dress had begun to wilt. The blue satin bow on her head was dangerously askew.

"More cake, anyone? More ice cream? You’re all finished, I see. You mean I can’t persuade anyone to have just a tiny bit more? No? Well, that’s dandy. I wouldn’t want you to stuff yourselves and get tummy aches. I suppose you’re waiting for me to open my presents. Isn’t that what comes next? I open the presents and look pleased and thank everybody sincerely and say I just love the coloring book. Do you know what you can all do? she asked sweetly. You can take your stinking presents and cram them up your tight little asses."

Children gasped. Ava Nell cried out and looked as if she were going to faint. Marabelle continued to smile that sweet smile as she stepped over to the buffet and picked up a gaily wrapped package.

‘To Marabelle from Linda Sue,’ she read. ‘Happy Birthday.’ Isn’t that nice? Here, Linda Sue. Oh dear, you look upset. Did anyone ever tell you you need braces? I’ve seen buckteeth in my day, honey, but yours should win some kind of award.

Linda Sue turned pale. Ava Nell slapped a hand to her heart, cheeks ashen. The guests all began to babble at once, on their feet, ready to rebel. Marabelle smiled and picked up another present and gave it back, and then she began to hurl the presents and there was an incredible uproar as children screamed and presents flew in the air and terrified boys and girls stampeded to the door.

I don’t need any of you! she cried. "You’re all bastards, bastards! You don’t know anything! You think you’re so smart! You think you’re so high and mighty and important! Get out of here! Out! Provincial clods! Living in a tiny backwater town, giving yourselves airs! I lived in Washington for over six years and I’ve met Sarah Bernhardt, Daddy took me backstage, and you don’t even know who she is! I know you don’t like me! I couldn’t care less! I’m relieved! Out! Get out of my house and don’t you dare come back! Ever!"

Footsteps pounded in the foyer and stumbled down the front steps as a dozen shrill voices shrieked, and at last there was silence and Ava Nell looked at her niece with tears streaming down her cheeks and then quietly left the room. Marabelle turned to me with eyes flashing defiantly, and I stood there calmly, wondering what she would do next. Her fists were tight balls. Her lips trembled. She tried desperately not to cry, and after a few moments she managed to control herself.

Well, she said. "I guess I showed them."

She pulled the blue satin bow from her hair and dropped it on the floor and sighed and looked around at the debris, perfectly calm now, or at least giving a good imitation. She ran her fingers through her ragged honey-blonde locks and sighed once more.

"He didn’t come. I knew he wouldn’t. He doesn’t have time for me. I understand, of course, and quite frankly I don’t care. He can forget all about me if he wants to, but one of these days—one of these days, Eddie, I’m going to make him take notice. I’m going to be famous, as famous as Sarah Bernhardt, and they won’t say, ‘Oh, she’s Jonathan Lawrence’s daughter,’ I promise you. They’re going to look at him and say, ‘See him, he’s Marabelle’s father.’"

I’m not going to take my present back, I told her.

"Of course not. I intend to cherish it forever. You’re my one true friend, the only friend I’ve ever had, if you must know, and we’re always going to be close. All for one and one for all, just like the musketeers, only there’ll just be two of us."

Okay by me, I said.

"You know what we’re going to do? We’re going to seal it in blood, just like they do in books!"

She seized the cake knife, wiped it off with a napkin and rushed over to me with it. I drew back, for the knife was very sharp and I didn’t like the glow in her eyes. Marabelle gave me an exasperated look and grabbed my hand and deftly sliced my index finger. I winced. She sliced her own finger and put the knife down and joined our two fingers, mixing the blood together.

I, Marabelle Lawrence, will always be your true and devoted friend, faithful and loyal through thick and thin, and you, Edward C. Hunt, will always be mine no matter what happens, come what may, and each of us will have the other to turn to in sickness and in health, in sadness and in joy, for as long as we both do live. Agreed?

Agreed, I said nervously.

"Marvelous. I feel ever so much better now. Poor Ava Nell. She’ll be having vapors for the next two days. What shall we do now? I’ll tell you what, let’s go eat the rest of the ice cream. It would be a shame to let it go to waste."

2

Alabama 1922

Linda Sue Merkel never forgave Marabelle, nor did any of the other girls at that memorable party, but by the time Marabelle was fourteen the boys were coming around in droves. She had attained her full height of five foot four by that time, and the baby fat had melted away, leaving a still slightly plump but exceedingly appealing body. Those remarkable cheekbones appeared, and while other girls were busily bobbing their hair she let hers grow into a tawny mane, heavy honey-blonde waves framing that strikingly dramatic face. The mouth no longer seemed too large, and the violet-blue eyes were luminous. Her complexion was smooth, as silken as a magnolia petal.

Marabelle had blossomed into a raving beauty, but it was the personality that acted as magnet to every young male in town. She was incandescent, outrageous, incapable of making the slightest gesture without verve and dash. At fourteen she took up smoking, cigarettes, matches and smoke serving as ideal props for her interminable monologues. At fifteen she discovered bootleg booze and was never without a flask, flashing it around with considerable show, rarely drinking any of the contents. Marabelle didn’t really need any kind of stimulant. She was inebriated with life.

She had a dreadful reputation, of course. She was fast, and adults shook their heads in consternation when they mentioned That Lawrence Girl. Southern snobbery being what it is, however, and ancestry playing so important a part in social matters, she was accepted reluctantly and invited to all the prestigious affairs. Her blood was as blue as indigo on both sides of the family and, besides, her father had become a senator and was considered one of the most prominent men in Washington, keeping cool with Coolidge and representing his constituents with hard-nosed efficiency. Marabelle loved to shock and scandalize and she did it with gusto, thriving on her easily won notoriety, but while Linda Sue and several of her cronies sinned in secret, Marabelle remained as pure as the driven snow, keeping her bevy of gentlemen callers wildly amused and at a distance.

She knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t anything she could find in the old home town. She adored the boys, loved dashing about with them in their shiny roadsters, dancing with them at the country club, playing her ukulele for them on her front porch while the fireflies glowed in the wisteria vine, but she took none of them seriously. Joe and Steve and Fred and Allen, Bartholomew, Melvin and Frank were amusing playmates, nothing more. Each one was wealthy, socially prominent, a marvelous catch, and Ava Nell prayed nightly that one of them would take the minx off her hands, but Marabelle had no intention of marrying and settling down to a life of propriety and good works. She was determined to be famous, much more famous than her father. It was an obsession, an absolute necessity.

We went through high school together, and Marabelle astounded everyone by making perfect grades. The hussy might flout authority left and right, might seem to spend most of her time emulating Annette Kellerman at the local swimming hole or holding raucous court at the drugstore, surrounded by robust males, but she devoured books voraciously, had a photographic memory and outstripped her classmates scholastically with shocking ease. She had the leads in all the class plays, of course, giving a kinetic performance as Portia, presenting a rowdy Rosalind and chilling the blood as Lady Macbeth in our senior year.

We both graduated with top honors. Her father came to the commencement exercises and delivered a stirring speech, and Marabelle glowed with pride as her classmates applauded. They were photographed together after the ceremony. He was very distinguished. She was radiant. He told her the future was ahead of her. She confided huskily that she was going to become an actress. Jonathan Lawrence grimaced, told her he had made arrangements for her to attend Smith College in the fall and glanced at his watch. He had a train to catch. Marabelle was desolate at the party that night, but no one would have guessed it. She danced until two, showing her beaux all the latest steps, emptying her flask, arriving home blind drunk for the first time in her life.

It was a long, sultry summer, the sidewalks steaming, the oak trees casting pale shade, the bees droning lazily in the flower beds. I paid no attention to the heat. I would be starting at Princeton in the fall and was determined to finish my first novel before I went Up North. It was an ambitious effort about three veterans returning home to a sleepy southern town after the War To End All Wars and finding it impossible to adjust. If memory serves, one of them was blind, one had lost an arm and the third was a cynical rake who was ultimately reformed by a whore with a heart of gold. I suspected it stank, but Marabelle assured me it was a masterpiece to make John Dos Passos green with envy.

I was working away one afternoon in the sunny, spacious and sparsely furnished upstairs room Mildred had allotted for literary purposes when I heard that familiar voice call out and heard footsteps tapping noisily on the stairs. I scowled angrily and turned around just as she made her entrance. Marabelle never merely entered a room, even back then. She paused in the doorway, caught her breath, clasped her hand to her heart and shook her head. Her other hand clutched a magazine.

"Don’t look like that, darling, you love to see me and you know it. I don’t know how you can stand it up here. The heat. I don’t intend to interrupt you for long, you needn’t be so defensive. I know how dreadful interruptions are for the creative process, how well I know, but I heard you typing away furiously and just had to dash over and show you this. How’s it coming? Marvelously? I know you’re going to finish it and it’s going to create a sensation and you’re going to make F. Scott Fitzgerald look sick, darling. Any more chapters for me to read? I adore the prostitute. She bears a very uncanny resemblance to yours truly, particularly when she opens her mouth. Stop frowning. You know I’m terribly stimulating and a glorious inspiration. I give you all your best lines."

I wish you’d stop calling me darling. It’s terribly affected.

"That’s my trademark, darling. I call everyone that. I never can remember names, you see, and it’s such a handy word."

What is it you want to show me? I asked wearily.

"You needn’t sound so martyred. I’ll only be a minute. Have you got a cigarette, darling? I’m out. I intended to dash down to the drugstore after lunch but I got so excited about the contest I forgot all about it. You have? Mildred gave me such a look as I came upstairs. She still thinks I’m terribly wicked, the dear. By this time you’d think she’d know I’m just a lamb in wolf’s clothing. Thank you. Have you got a match? I’ve figured it all out, Eddie. I have a plan. He can forget all about Smith. I’m going to New York. I’m going to be in pictures. It’s a dead cinch. I’m certain to be one of the winners. With these cheekbones, how could I possibly lose? I’m not vain, darling, you know I’m not, it’s mostly a matter of coloring and bone structure, but I am photogenic. I’ve got to borrow ten dollars because not just any photographer will do, and that’s where you come in, I don’t have the ten bucks and I know you’ve been stashing it away, that paper route you had, all those lawns you mowed. Come on, Eddie, fork it over. You know I’m good for it. When I’m rich and famous I’ll keep you in cuff links, solid gold, you’ll never have to beg for bread."

All this required about three seconds and one deep breath. Marabelle not only talked constantly, she talked with the speed of machinegun fire, and it took considerable practice to follow her wild excursions of speech. I’d had a great deal of practice.

You’re going to enter a contest. That movie magazine you’re clutching is sponsoring it. You want to borrow ten dollars so you can hire a classy photographer to take your picture. I assume you intend to send your picture off.

"I intend to win, darling. There’ll be twelve winners, each girl will be given a movie contract with this company in New York and paid fifty dollars a week so I can give you back your ten the first week. It’s a talent contest, darling. Here, see for yourself. Only instead of talent it’s looks they’re after. Can’t you just see me on the silver screen? I know hundreds, probably thousands of girls all over America are going to send in their pictures, waitresses in Arizona, schoolgirls in Idaho, but I have this feeling, darling, I just know I’m going to be a winner particularly if he uses proper lighting, shading, the cheekbones emphasized, the jaw underplayed, the eyes lit up. I’ll show him how. Make-up’s important and I intend to keep absolutely mum about my age. There’re probably laws. And don’t say a word about white slavers, this is Picture-Play, it’s got to be legitimate. I’ll be eternally grateful, darling. Where do you keep the cash?"

I reluctantly parted with the money. Marabelle eagerly snatched it, gave me an enthusiastic hug and hurried out of the room, heels clattering noisily on the stairs. Five days later she returned with a print of the photograph my ten bucks had purchased. It was stunning indeed. Her hair gleamed like a glossy cap, and her large, luminous eyes were full of invitation, heavy lids seductively half-lowered. The cheekbones were classic sculpture, the mouth smiling a Mona Lisa smile. She looked a good twenty-five.

This is yours to keep forever and ever, darling, she informed me. "I had four copies made, one for Picture-Play, one for Daddy, one for you and one I’m keeping. Now do you doubt me? I’m bound