Topaz Woman

By Christine Candland

It's 1975 and Cassidy Brookes is stuck in a dead-end job at a Hollywood movie studio. A testy encounter with A-list director Jeff McConnell provokes her into dusting off her ambitions to become a writer. Taunted by McConnell, Cassie decides to write a screenplay to show him what she can do-but she is at a loss for a story.

While shopping at an antiques fair, Cassie buys a jeweled brooch containing a rare Imperial Topaz. She learns the brooch was once owned by a mysterious red-haired woman who lived in Ouro Preto, a fabled eighteenth-century city in Brazil, known for its Topaz mines and rivers of gold. As Cassie fingers the brooch, she feels a powerful connection to the red-haired woman, who lived half a century before. So great is her obsession with the story, Cassie quits her job and abandons McConnell, with whom she is falling in love.

After traveling to Brazil, Cassie arrives in Ouro Preto to track down the clues which lead to Amanda Savage. A child of two continents and a jazz-age rebel, Amanda proved to be a formidable activist in her day, as she challenged the aristocracy and their treatment of the local miners.

Amanda's courage blossoms in Cassie who is driven to solve the riddle of Amanda's death and bring the legendary tale of the Topaz Woman to light. How Cassie writes the story of Amanda Savage, battles the studio and Jeff McConnell, brings this romantic adventure to its exciting conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 22, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595848980

Christine Candland

Christine Candland lives in Los Angeles with her husband Michael. Her first two books Topaz Woman and Pleiades Rising, received awards in the London Book Festival and Eric Hoffer competitions. Her first collection of poems When Snow Walks In, describes the extraordinary amidst everyday scenes in understandable prose and sparkling details (U.S. Review of Books); And in her second collection, Paris Spoken Here, Candland’s poems sing with keen awareness of the gift of the ordinary (Elline Lipkin). Several of her poems have appeared in the California Quarterly and Altadena Poetry Review.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

IT TOOK SEVERAL moments for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Gradually shapes appeared, then voices in hushed tones. The soundstage was a shrine where gods and goddesses created the world in their own image and likeness. Cassie entered with reverence.

The film crew was set up at the far corner of the room. A soundman waved in recognition. She waved back taking her place behind a canvas chair. She knew all the moves by heart, the way the script girl sat cross-legged, listening intently to the dialogue. The way the extras became animated on cue then turned back into lifeless forms. She scanned the call sheet every day. This morning they were shooting Midnight Is Not Over on stage five.

Fine bits of carpenter dust hung in the air from recent set construction. Stifling a sneeze, Cassie felt lightheaded wishing she’d had more than coffee that morning for breakfast. Her blood sugar was dropping. She needed to eat something fast. Her eyes were drawn to a pastrami sandwich, placed on a nearby chair. Just as the assistant director yelled, Cut, she grabbed the food and took a bite.

A tall man she hadn’t noticed strode up and asked sharply, What are you doing? That’s my sandwich!

I almost fainted. She quickly took another bite then handed it back to him. A crew member standing nearby laughed.

Who are you? the tall man demanded.

Cassie Brookes. I work in domestic sales. She thought it might help if he knew she worked on the lot.

Don’t you know this is a closed set? he said, then turned to the assistant director. Alan, how’d she get in here?

I’m really sorry. She rushed through her words. Maybe an apology would help, but it didn’t. The man continued to scowl causing her own temper to rise. The only reason I took your stupid sandwich was because I got lightheaded. Save your tantrums for something worth yelling about.

There was a tawny wildness about her that was startling, the man thought.

Turning her back on him, she strutted out. Her long yellow-brown hair flashed golden highlights, creating a wake of light behind her.

The girl’s unexpected retort caught him off guard. He wasn’t used to back talk. He watched her leggy form as she moved farther away. He saw beautiful women all the time but this one had a face that was exceptional, even when she was angry. Behind the remorseful pools of blue was a flash of temper not unlike his own, an impatience with life he understood. He hesitated, then followed her out.

Where are you from, Cassie Brookes? He caught up with her, matching her long stride with his own.

Missouri, Kansas City. She maintained her indignation, not wanting to have a conversation with this rude man. The air was still and the sun’s heat burned her shoulders.

You work in sales? he asked.

It’s boring me to tears. She stopped to face him, shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

What would you like to do? He took a bite of the sandwich and handed it to her.

She took another bite. Something creative.

When she met his gaze, she felt a rush. Over six feet tall with wavy brown hair, he had piercing gray eyes and looked twice her age. There was an intensity about him that made it hard for her to catch her breath.

I’ve got to get back to the set. I’m sorry I made such a big deal over the food. I just didn’t know the story, he said.

After he walked away, she realized she didn’t know who he was or what he did. Everyone was in a hurry at the studio, especially the ones who loved their jobs. And whatever this man did, he loved doing it.

CHAPTER 2

SPRING 1975

CASSIDY BROOKES planned her escape. The day she graduated from college she was alone. All afternoon she watched her friends strolling arm in arm with their parents across the rolling green lawn. Maybe she’d made a mistake by participating in the ceremony. The diploma could just as easily have been sent by mail. But there was something symbolic about the event, a validation that this part of her life was over.

She smoothed her white rented gown and adjusted the mortarboard with its golden tassel. Plucking a clover from the grass, she twirled it between her thumb and forefinger until it became a miniature green umbrella. When she was honored as magna cum laude, she gave her speech without emotion.

That night after packing a suitcase, Cassie took a taxi to the bus terminal. A cool breeze brushed across her face as she got out of the cab. She smiled. It was the first time that day she’d felt any sensation.

The bus terminal was concrete block, painted in shades of mauve and gray. Light from the windows of the building streamed out like a beacon. Inside, fluorescents cast their blue white glow onto preoccupied faces. Passengers bought tickets, filled seats and waited. Eagerly, she joined them.

Before boarding the bus, she took another look at the night sky. Orion and the Seven Sisters, dressed in their finest sparklers, were there to see her off. The seat next to her was empty. She curled up and fell asleep.

During the early morning hours, the bus hit a dip in the road. She awoke with a start. Through the window she saw her reflection superimposed on the dark countryside passing by. A couple across the aisle reminded her of her stepparents.

She flashed on an incident when she was six years old. Her stepfather was bathing her. He was touching her private place. She recalled the mildew on the shower curtain, the green linoleum and the tall sides of the tub making escape impossible. Feeling shame, she remained still as a statue. The scene dissolved. She was eight. As she was setting the dinner table and singing to herself, her stepmother’s hand stung as it swept across her face.

The bus sailed through long stretches of the New Mexico desert landscaped with greasewood and rabbit brush. The thought of her own parents surfaced. Her father had died of an asthma attack. She remembered him painting in his studio. The brilliant colors energized her. The smell of linseed oil permeated the air. The image faded. She thought of her mother who had died a year later of an aneurysm, her loving voice gone forever.

Cassie lived with her stepparents until she was eighteen. During that time she did her best to smile a lot and look pretty. That was what they wanted, an ornament. After high school she moved out of the house to the university. A scholarship paid the tuition. Spending money came from working as a waitress. It was a lonely grind. What kept her going was the magic of drama. On stage she could be someone bold, beautiful, loved.

Vibrations from the bus shook her back to reality. She took a deep breath, leaned back in her seat and released the hot salty tears that had been building up for days. Staring into the darkness, she fell into a fitful sleep.

Two days later, the bus arrived in Los Angeles. An inner city shuttle dropped her off at Hollywood and Vine. Eagles and gargoyles atop buildings were covered with soot. Shabby stores hawked pieces of dreams. Cassie shook off the cloud of disappointment. Hollywood was merely camouflaged. She must learn to see with new eyes and break the sorcerer’s spell.

Several cars drove by emitting sounds from customized mufflers. A portable radio blasted Betty Davis Eyes. A poorly dressed man holding a mannequin danced in front of her. She walked past freshly polished motorcycles lined up on both sides of the street. Their owners, dressed in leather jackets, jousted boisterously with each other. Rounding the corner, she saw half a dozen young men wearing T-shirts advertising Guardian Angels.

Evening ma’am, a Guardian murmured politely, tipping his beret. A souvenir store displayed a photograph of James Dean laminated on wood. Grauman’s Chinese Theater, where the gods could be worshipped for the price of admission, was decorated in red and gold and guarded by Chinese warrior masks.

It was getting late. A two-story stucco hotel displayed a neon vacancy sign. The building had been painted in various shades of pink. Two red hibiscus bushes bowed over the cracked sidewalk.

She walked to the front desk. The smell of burnt coffee and stale cigarette butts permeated the air.

I’d like a room, please, she said, shifting her weight nervously. An old man reading the newspaper peered out from under a worn Dodger baseball cap.

Twenty-five dollars a night. Sign here, miss, the elderly clerk said. The veins in his hand bulged as he pointed to the sign in sheet. Handing him a week’s rent, Cassie took the key and dragged her suitcase up the creaking stairs to the second floor.

Bolting the door, she sat on the edge of the bed with its faded spread. Two prints of palm trees and sunsets hung crookedly on the wall. She straightened them, aware she’d brought her compulsive need for order along with her.

During the night, a loud ruckus woke her. Raising the window, she saw a woman standing in the parking lot dressed in a black bra yelling at a man putting his pants on. She closed the window, turned up the air conditioner and drifted back to sleep. Dark shadows haunted her dreams. The man in the parking lot was chasing her.

In the morning, she ate at a pancake house. Are there any movie studios near here? she asked the handsome waiter, wondering if he was an actor.

You must be new in town, he grinned.

Since yesterday. I need to find a job. She thought about the few remaining dollars in her pocket.

I heard Grand Studios is hiring. They’re on Cloud Lift Street, he said, clearing dishes from a nearby table.

Like most movie studios, Grand consisted of a cluster of drab gray hangar-like buildings and warehouses. Its operations stretched beyond sixty acres. There were backdrops and sets created for films, a Dodge City type western town, swimming pools, lakes and streets of nineteenth century Chicago. Briskly, Cassie walked past the guard. The personnel office was housed in a brown and white trailer. Outside, the job board advertised a secretarial position.

You need studio experience and fast shorthand, a heavily made up receptionist informed her. The curt manner softened when she saw the disappointed look on the girl’s face. If you’re interested, there’s an opening for a clerk in domestic sales.

Trading in her Weejuns for Nikes, Cassie adopted the uniform of designer jeans and T-shirts advertising the studio’s latest film. Lunch hours spent at casting offices resulted in a few local commercials and walk-ons in films. Two years passed by and she was still in sales.

SUMMER 1977

Following her run-in with the man from the Midnight set, Cassie returned to the yellow wooden building. The interior smelled of chewing gum and hairspray. The sales department consisted of forty or more desks positioned in long rows. Thin partitions separated the desks. Theaters around the country were called to obtain the number of tickets sold. The amount was then recorded on tabloid sized sheets of paper. Cassie dialed the theaters in her region. Hi, Tara, how did you do?

Quickly came the routine answer, "Monsters from the Sea, four hundred and two on Friday, four hundred and fifty-six on Saturday and three hundred on Sunday."

A flurry of running feet sounded from the corridor. What’s going on? Cassie asked Edie the bookkeeper.

Jeff McConnell is in an uproar. He called the theaters himself and says the figures they gave him were higher than ours. That man makes me a nervous wreck. I’d tell him off if his films didn’t make so much money. Her voice shook.

I’m taking an early lunch and will be back by twelve-thirty, Cassie said. They were looking for a secretary in the story department and she’d arranged for an interview. She hadn’t come all this way to Hollywood just to get stuck tallying grosses.

I’ll cover your phone. I brought an apple and carrots for lunch. I may try that new liquid diet, Edie said pointing to her thick waistline. Don’t forget, the Women’s Council is sponsoring yoga at noon, stage four. She went to the vending machine and came back sipping a soda.

Elliot Stevens was waiting in his office. About medium height, he had short dark curly hair and wore square wire frame glasses. Los Angeles was full of pretty people, Cassie thought. Maybe they’d come to Hollywood to be actors and somewhere along the way became something else.

Your shorthand needs to be 120, he told her, studying her application. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on a note pad. Several stacks of screenplays were piled high on his desk.

I’ll get my speed up, Cassie said, not admitting she had to learn shorthand first.

Elliot sat back in his chair, studying her. To be honest, I can’t hire you. Another secretary with more seniority has applied for the job. He checked her application and then set it in a wire basket at the corner of his desk.

It was raining when Cassie walked out of the executive building. When she got back to her desk, a tile from the ceiling had fallen. It had brown spots around the edges and looked like a square vanilla wafer. As soon as she wiped off her desk, the phone rang.

How about lunch? her friend Margaret Jenkins asked.

Too late for lunch. I’ll meet you at three for break in the commissary, Cassie said.

Open from early morning until late afternoon, the commissary was a favorite place to eat and star watch. The large facility had an outdoor patio framed with flowered side gardens. It had three sections: inexpensive fast food, a sit-down restaurant and the executive dining room reserved for upper tier management.

Margaret was already seated when Cassie walked in. Petite and in her mid-thirties, Margaret wore her brunette hair short. Her ensembles always included exotic bright earrings that swung back and forth against her neck. The room was filled with the high energy of a newsroom buzz.

I had an interview with Elliot Stevens this morning, Cassie said after she ordered a strawberry milkshake.

Coke and a piece of chocolate cake, Margaret said to the waiter, adjusting her scarf.

I thought he was interested in me. Then he says I don’t have enough seniority.

Those jobs are hard to get. You have to compete with all the secretaries who’ve been around for years, Margaret said.

I’m having a tough time getting out of sales, Cassie complained.

So interview for a nonunion job.

I’m making payments on my car. You know how the studio hires and fires people around here.

That’s mostly on the creative side. Besides you’re young. Now’s the time to take chances. I hear there’s an opening in syndication.

I’ll check it out. How about you?

"The comedy writers of Over Easy are looking for a secretary. I’m going to apply. I have to work overtime tonight. Want to help? It’ll give you experience typing scripts," Margaret said, licking the icing off her fork.

At six o’clock Cassie collected her sweater and headed toward the writer’s building. Beyond the alpine village, she passed by a thatched roof cottage housing the studio’s first aid station. The cottage had been the dressing room of a former child star.

Margaret was typing when she walked into the wood paneled office. On the walls were photographs of Grand Studios in the 1940s. Notes and reminders were tacked everywhere.

Welcome to the night shift. Here’s a sample page to set your margins. Margaret handed her a typed sheet.

I met an interesting man on stage five this morning, Cassie said, settling into her chair.

Margaret leaned over her shoulder. Indent the left margin fifteen spaces, dialogue at twenty-five, right margin unjustified. When the revised pages are finished, we’ll do the shooting schedule.

He’s gorgeous, Cassie said loudly.

What’s his name? Margaret walked across the floor back to her desk.

I forgot to ask.

I’ll make fresh coffee, she offered.

Okay, Cassie said. Everyone stayed pumped up on the brew, all the time.

The smell of jasmine drifted through an open window. By nine the work was completed. They walked to their cars. The full moon carved a pathway of light between the dark shadowy soundstages. Driving through the lot on her way out, Cassie glanced up at the lights still burning in the executive building. Someone up there was writing a script or rehearsing a scene. That was what she wanted to do and where she wanted to be. But how was she going to get there from here?

CHAPTER 3

CASSIE OPENED THE wrought iron gate into the garden,