There Is a Fountain

By Melissa Whitt

It is the late 1940s, the golden age of Hollywood, and actress Lola Livegood is climbing the ladder of success. She has landed several movie roles, partly due to the efforts of her manager, Roger, who is intent on making her a star by any means. But one night after the premier of her latest film, everything changes for Lola when she is involved in a devastating car crash that takes the life of her driver and leaves her fighting for her life.

Lola awakens in the hospital, battered and badly scarred on her face. With her career now on hold, and her relationship with Roger on the brink, Lola wallows in self-pity and despair-until she stumbles upon a tattered letter from her sister, Maggie, who is running a small orphanage in France and wants her to visit. Lola travels to France to seek escape but is brought face-to-face with a complicated inward battle and the most important question she will ever answer.

There is a Fountain is the tale of a successful Hollywood actress who embarks on a faith-driven journey to confront her eternal destiny after her life is turned upside down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781973662006

Melissa Whitt

Melissa Whitt spent her childhood traveling from church to church before flying to Costa Rica and then Honduras with her family as missionaries. She and her husband have three children and are actively involved in their church. When she isn’t homeschooling her children, Melissa writes, plays piano, paints, and sings. There Is a Fountain is her debut novel.

Book preview

There Is a

Fountain

MELISSA WHITT

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Copyright © 2019 Melissa Whitt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-6199-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-6198-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-6200-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019906892

WestBow Press rev. date:  06/06/2019

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

The book is dedicated to my loving husband and three amazing children,

who daily inspire me to be a better person;

To my own sisters: I love you;

And to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,

who took a good girl who was a sinner

and made her into a new creation.

All scripture taken from the KJV Bible

*Excerpt taken from devotional Morning and Evening, by Charles Spurgeon, June 13, Morning in chapter 25

*Excerpt from chapter 1 of Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott in Chapter 26

Ho, everyone that thirsteth, come ye to the waters

—Isaiah 55:1

Chapter 1

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April 1946,

Hollywood, California

"L ola! Lola!"

Look right here, Lola. Smile!

Lola, how do you feel about working with Morgan Smith on your newest picture?

Lola, tell us about your new film.

They were all yelling my name, screaming at me as if I were a lost puppy they were trying to find or a child who was deliberately ignoring them. I smiled, waved, and did my best to walk elegantly down the red carpet to my limousine. My chauffeur stood behind the open door, ready to sweep me away from the headache and mess of the media and press clamoring around me.

But where was Roger? I turned to look and saw him chatting with someone from the newspaper. Why did he insist on leading those poor reporters on? Their incessant questions were nauseating, and they didn’t know anything about the movie business. They were a dime a dozen, if you asked me. I straightened my gown at my feet so I wouldn’t trip over it as I waited for Roger. My gown sparkled like diamonds; it dripped with silver crystals winking in the flash of cameras around me. I loved the way it fit. It had been especially designed for the opening of my newest movie. I felt like a million dollars, which was about what I was worth—I, Lola Livegood, the Hollywood sensation and soon to be the brightest star in the film industry. I was almost at the top of my game, as they say.

What was taking Roger so long? When he happened to glance my way, I gave him an icy glare, hopefully conveying the annoyance he was to me at that moment. Let’s get out of here! I wanted to scream. I noticed the reporter he was talking to was a young, pretty thing with long legs and a wide smile, too wide for my liking. Roger, I started, but the noise of the photographers and reporters drowned me out. Roger must have heard, though. He turned and waved his hands in a shoo-fly motion as if to say, Go on without me. I wanted to stomp my feet and yell at him, but I suddenly remembered all the eyes on me. It wouldn’t do to have tomorrow’s headlines in the LA Times state, Livegood Loses Temper on Red Carpet. I wasn’t one to lose my temper either. I tried to stay cool, calm, and in control at all times.

I strutted back down the red carpet, ignoring the noise around me. I slid gracefully into my seat and nodded at my driver to shut out the world around me. As he closed the car door with a click, the sound of the people outside was muffled. And when the car drove smoothly toward the street, I felt myself slump into the leather seat. Tears, laughter, anger, fatigue, and plain exhaustion—all these passed through me in a myriad of feelings. I hadn’t eaten all day, and the champagne I’d enjoyed at the reception was making me tipsy. The rush of the movie premiere still coursed through my veins and I wanted to fall asleep and run a marathon at the same time.

Where to, Miss Livegood? There’s an after-party at the Grove, suggested my driver, Bruce.

No, please take me home, Bruce.

Sure thing, Miss Livegood.

I sunk into the seat, watching Hollywood’s nightlife pass me by. Normally, I would be out there in it, dazzling people with my charm. I wasn’t one to shy away from being the center of attention. In fact, I lived for it. It drove me and made me feel loved and wanted. I wanted people to worship me, and I tried everything in my power to live in a way that would guarantee it. I wanted to be the best and most famous actress of my time, and I would bite, scratch, and trample anything or anyone who tried to stop me. Well, at least that’s what Roger told me I should do. I usually did whatever Roger told me, no matter what the consequences. He’d gotten me this far, so something was working.

Miss Livegood, looks like there’s a traffic jam up ahead. There’s a crowd out tonight to see your new picture. I’ll take the back roads and try to avoid it, if you don’t mind.

I don’t care, Bruce. Do whatever you need to do to get me home.

Yes, Miss Livegood. He turned right, away from the bright lights of Hollywood.

We drove in silence for a while, me in my half-asleep state of mind. I thought of Roger and that young reporter. If he decided to take her to his apartment for the night, I would have something to say to him tomorrow. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d shown up to find some woman in his apartment. I was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

Aw, but honey, you know I only love you. Those little girls don’t mean a thing. They’re just playthings, he’d tell me. And before long, he’d have me believing it. But the amount of money and power that he had made a girl think twice about ditching him. He’d already landed me two coveted roles in pictures I’d only dreamed of acting in. He’d pulled strings to get some of the biggest names in Hollywood to act right alongside me. No, Roger Stanford was no one to play games with. Once you were in with him, you were set for life, or so I’d been told. It didn’t matter what he told you to do or who he sent you home with; you did it and you went. A woman’s career in this industry was a fragile thing, and I wasn’t about to blow it over minor details.

Did I love him? No, not really. I couldn’t help but like him and be attracted to him. He was funny and smart and made me feel like the most beautiful woman alive. He showered me with gifts and did the most romantic things. But I felt like he was smothering me, choking the life out of me, and making me be what he wanted me to be. And even though he’d said that he would never marry, I’d asked him many times to marry me and make our union legal. He would laugh and pat me on the head. You don’t know nothing, kid, he’d say sarcastically. And then he’d be gone for weeks on end to Vegas or Paris. I knew I wasn’t the only woman he had, and that bothered me. I was determined to be as rich and powerful as he was one day. Then I could leave his clutches and be free, not afraid of being destitute without his help. Finally, I was almost there.

Why are we driving so slow? What’s going on? I asked Bruce when I was pulled from my thoughts. We were in the middle of nowhere, it seemed, on a mountain road full of twists and turns. And Bruce was driving like a grandma.

There’s a car in front of us, miss. It seems they aren’t in as much of a hurry as we are. I can’t get around them until it’s safe to pass, he said. He leaned to the right and left to try and look around the car in front. Can’t see around this curve.

If there’s no one else coming, then pass them, I ordered. I’d kill for a drink right now, I muttered, uncrossing my legs and fiddling with my dress. I looked into my handbag for something, anything, to take the edge off my thirst. Aha, a peppermint would do nicely. Go on, Bruce. I want to get home before I die of old age. Pass these people now, I said around the mint in my mouth.

Whatever you say, miss. Bruce pressed down on the gas, pulling quickly into the opposite lane. I clasped and unclasped my handbag. I was bored and ready to get home and into my bathtub for a long soak.

I was just about to ask Bruce again to hurry up when I heard him gasp. The sound was frightening, and it made me look up. I was met with headlights glaring into my face. I screamed and cursed, yelling at Bruce to pull over. I remember the car beside us suddenly speeding up, making it impossible for us to get back in the proper lane. I screamed again, and that was when I felt myself jerked to the left. My body slammed into the car. There was an eerie silence, and then the car crashed into something and tumbled over and over. The sound of shattering glass was followed by Bruce’s screams. I was in the air one minute and then smashed into the side of the car the next. Like a whirlwind we fell, turning and crashing, being knocked around over and over until I felt as if every bone in my body was broken. Then all was still, except for the car creaking and smoking. I was lying on top of something jagged and couldn’t move. Sharp pain resonated throughout my body, and my face stung like a million beestings.

I was stunned beyond thought and felt as if I were dreaming. I started to smell smoke and saw small flames, yellow and orange and terribly real. They lapped at my dress, burning it. I tried to get up on my hands and knees but could only manage to slowly scoot away from the fire. Every bone in my body screamed in pain, and I closed my eyes and wished for death. That was when all went dark and I felt myself slip into unconsciousness.

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Mother, are you awake? I called, stepping into my mother’s room. She was lying on the bed, her body a tiny lump under the covers. She was breathing heavily, and I saw the lump rise and fall with each haggard breath.

She won’t make it through the night, the doctor had said. So I’d come. I’d come to pay my respects. I’d come because I’d felt I had to.

Carol? my mother whispered, turning her head to look at me.

I couldn’t help it; hearing my old name made me cringe. Mother, no one calls me that anymore, I said quickly, sitting on the side of the bed. It creaked under my weight, and I felt like an elephant compared to the small, frail woman in the bed beside me.

Carol Elizabeth Brown is a perfectly wonderful name, young lady. You were my Christmas baby. I will never forget that evening, our family singing all manner of Christmas hymns, and you decided it was time to come into the world. You were born the next morning, the day after Christmas. My mother sighed, her eyelids fluttering open. The eyes were watery and weak, where they once had been piercing and vivid, much like my own. Although she was on the verge of death, she still had so many memories.

Yes, Mother, I’ve heard the story a thousand times. And it’s a perfectly good name, just not for my work. I came to see you … I’m sorry. I know it’s been ages, but I’ve been so busy and—

Busy, busy, busy! That’s all anybody is these days. She lifted a shaking hand. Nobody has any time for the good Lord. What if he decides he doesn’t have time for us? Eh? Where would we all be then?

Mama, stop preaching. You need to rest. I gently pushed her hand down and covered it with the blankets around her.

She vaguely smiled at me. You always remind me of your daddy, so unwilling to listen to anything anyone has to say. Always moving … going … he couldn’t sit still for a minute. She swallowed. I tried, Carol. I hope you know I have tried to teach you right. She paused, and I started to interject that she had always been a wonderful mother, but she shook her head slowly, I haven’t always been what I should have been, but I always tried to teach my children right.

I sighed. There was no stopping her ramblings once she started. I thought she would go on, but she stopped, her breathing labored. I watched her.

Well, you finally made it to see me, she said after a while.

I bit my lip, guilt spreading through me like a wildfire. I’m sorry it took so long.

She lay silent; her lips were dry and cracked. She finally croaked, I pray for you every day. I pray you’ll give up this movie actress dream and get right with God.

I ground my teeth but said nothing. Let the woman talk; there was no telling how long she had to keep talking.

I let her continue shakily, Turn to the Lord, Carol. He will use you. You are so pretty and talented. The good Lord uses them kind the best. Once I cross over, I hope you’ll remember what I’ve said this day.

I felt something like fear creep over me, but I pushed it away. I didn’t like thinking about religious things. It didn’t help me any. Sighing, I reached out and took my mother’s hand, making soothing sounds to comfort her. After a long silence, she began to groan, softly at first but then louder, until she seemed to be wracked with pain. I stood scared, my mouth dry and feeling as if I might faint. I started to call out my sister’s name, but Mother suddenly calmed, turning to me and whispering my name. I bent to hear her.

‘There Is a Fountain’ … sing it for me, Carol. ‘There is a fountain, filled with blood.’ You sing so beautifully.

I started singing, the words still imbedded in my mind after so many years. My voice was shaking, and I had tears welling in my eyes, but I sang that old hymn to her as she lay there quietly, as if suddenly soothed by the sound. There is a fountain, filled with blood, drawn from Emmanuel’s veins. And sinners plunged beneath that flood, lose all their guilty stains … Would my guilty stains ever go away? Was there hope for someone like me, who had rejected everything I had been taught? I had to stop singing. There was no hope for a person like me. I had tried the Christian life and failed. If God really cared about me, he would have helped me when I had needed him. But I always felt like my prayers just hit the ceiling and fell right back down in my face. What else did I have to do to get him to like me? I had nothing to give him, and he had nothing to give me.

I looked down and saw mother sleeping peacefully. Good. At least my singing had seemed to settle her. It sure as the world didn’t help me any. I crept from the room and shut the door. Soon all this would be over, and I would be back to my regular life. I didn’t like being here.

I stayed at the house that night, sleeping in my old room. Memories clouded my mind as I lay in the rickety bed that creaked and sang with every movement, just as it had all my life. I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, trying to ignore the voices in the next room. I had just fallen asleep when the door opened quickly and soft light flooded in. I sat up, squinting.

Your mother just passed, a voice said, and I heard my sister weeping in the next room.

Chapter 2

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I     had been dreaming, and I suddenly felt myself wake up. My head was pounding, and my whole body was in pain. One arm and one leg hurt, and my face stung so badly I could have screamed. There were things wrapped around my head, and I thought I was in the dark. I tried to open my eyes but could only manage one of them. I saw through blurry vision a bright light and a face above me.

She’s coming to, said a female voice, somber and deep. She suddenly yelled, Hurry! She’s awake!

I was confused. Why were there people in my house? Where was Martha, my housekeeper? I started to call her name, Martha! but heard only babbling.

Don’t try to talk now, miss. Just rest.

Where am I? I asked over and over, but it came out stuttered and wrong. I wanted to open my eyes, sit up, and make this awful headache go away. I was shaking and felt weak as a newborn. Every time I tried to say something, the words wouldn’t come out right.

Don’t stress yourself, Miss Livegood. You’re in the best hospital in California. Dr. Albert will take good care of you, the voice said, and I felt hands on my arms. Lie back now. We’re going to have to stitch up your face. The doctor will be here as soon as he can. I’m going to administer the anesthesia now.

I hadn’t been aware I was sitting up, but I must have been, for she gently pushed me back onto the bed. Hospital … she said hospital. And stitches? How badly am I hurt? Suddenly it all came back—the movie premier, Bruce passing the car in front, the horrid sounds when we drove off the mountain, the flames, the glass breaking all around me … Dear God, what has happened to me? What has happened to Bruce?

Using all the strength I had, I reached out and grabbed the woman’s arm before she could poke a needle in me. It must have been enough to get her attention, for I heard her gasp loudly. I couldn’t say much, but I tried my best to form two words and speak them clearly enough for her to understand. Any dead? I asked several times to make sure she understood.

I opened my one good eye and tried to focus on her face. I finally got enough of a look at her to see a round, kind-looking face, brown hair pulled back, and a nurse’s cap set jauntily atop her head. She was speaking. The people in the other vehicles are all fine. Not a scratch. She was quiet, and I knew with dread what was to come. Your driver, the young man identified as Bruce Moller, passed away from injuries suffered in the wreck. You barely made it out alive yourself, Miss Livegood.

I slumped back in agony and felt myself slipping away again. The room grew darker and darker until I was gone.

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Miss Livegood, are you awake? I turned my head, looking at the familiar face of Dr. Albert, who had been to see me many times in the last few days. I lay there, my face nearly covered with bandages, my head still hurting, and my body still stiff and aching. There was a cast on my left arm and one on my ankle.

I am awake, I answered, not bothering to move a muscle. At least I could see out of both eyes now, although everything was still blurry. I couldn’t really speak properly, as one side of my face was swollen and stiff.

Good, good. He sat down beside the bed, clipboard and pen in hand. He was older than me, probably in his forties, but when you really looked at him, his tired eyes and wrinkles made him look older, to me, anyway. He looked me over and exclaimed, Your broken arm is healing up nicely, and your ankle too. He bit his lip, his eyes suddenly serious. I need to take a look at the stitches on your face. You got pretty banged up, young lady.

I wanted to laugh at this. I groaned and croaked sarcastically, No kidding, doc.

He smiled. I’m very sorry about everything. We’re doing our best to take care of you.

Please, just get this over with, I said angrily and rather groggily. I wanted to scream.

He leaned forward and began to unwrap the bandages from around my head and face. You were cut deeply on one side of your face. We had to give you fifteen stitches. The worst of it is on your left side.

My best side, I thought absentmindedly as he examined me.

Your legs, are they still numb? When I didn’t answer, he sat back a little, looking me over. Reaching out, his fingers touched my face. It was still tender, and I winced.

It will be sore for a long time to come, I’m afraid, he muttered as he pulled his hand away. The cuts on the other side will leave some scars as well, but it will heal in time.

I sat in silence, stunned at what I was hearing. Burnt? Cut? I was reeling.

What are you going to do to help me? I can’t have scars—I can’t! I stated heatedly.

He looked me in the eyes. You have a lot of recovering to do, Miss Livegood. We can give you salve for the burns on your arm and legs, but as for your face, well, time will have to be your healer. The placement of the cut is rather awkward, and it’s too soon to discuss plastic surgery. He paused looking over his clipboard again. We can do nothing until you heal.

I gritted my teeth and set my jaw. I want to see my face.

Dr. Albert stopped short and said gently, I wouldn’t advise that just yet. Give yourself some time before—

"I want to see myself!" I screamed, knocking the clipboard from his hand in a rage. He jumped up, surprise and pity on his face.

Miss Livegood, really now! he exclaimed. He straightened his white coat and bent to retrieve his clipboard. Please cooperate. You’ve only been conscious for forty-eight hours. It’s far too early to worry about appearances.

I felt my body racking with sobs, and I moaned. I reached to feel my face, pain in every touch. I was mangled and scarred. What’s happened to me? I muttered over and over until I heard someone say my name. I looked up into the face of the nurse who had stayed with me that first horrid night in the hospital.

Shhh, doll. It’ll be all right. We’ll get you all better. Everything will be better with time. She crooned as she came to sit beside me on the bed. She put an arm around me, and I felt myself giving in to her comfort. I fell on her, burying my face and trying to hide the sounds of my weeping in her small shoulder.

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Six days. It had been six days since the accident, and no one had come to see me—not a soul. I refused to call anyone; I definitely didn’t want anyone to see me in my state. The hospital apparently had a very strict privacy rule, since they were used to treating so many famous people, and I was told that no one knew of my accident yet. Still, I wondered how long it would take someone to realize I wasn’t at home. I slumped down in the bed and felt more tears threaten to come. The pain in my face and body was almost unbearable at times. It was then that the nurses would give me handfuls of pills to help, and I was usually asleep within an hour. And I would sleep and sleep until the nurses would have to wake me up to eat and drink. I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted to sleep forever, to just die, if that would make the nightmare go away. The only thing that made sleeping hard was the dreams that always came when I was in a deep sleep. I dreamed of Mama and my sister. I dreamed of sneaking out of the house and being caught the next morning, my father’s stern voice booming as he prepared to strap me, winding the leather belt around and around his great big fist and rearing back …

Miss Livegood? I jumped as a nurse stepped in, folding her plump white hands in front of her. There’s a man here to see you. He’s been here before, but I made him leave because we didn’t know if you wanted to see anyone yet. But Doctor Albert thinks you are in need of some company. Are you up to having visitors? The nurse smiled tightly, and I tried to ignore the forced sweetness in her voice. I knew it was because I had probably been the worst, most trying patient this hospital had ever had. But what did I care? I wanted to be treated like the star I was, but some days I couldn’t even get a glass of water.

Who is he? I asked angrily.

Mr. Roger Stanford. He says he is your manager.

I didn’t know whether to be glad or nervous. What would he say when he saw me? My goodness, I hadn’t even seen my own face yet. I reached tensely to touch my swollen cheek. If I could just cover it, he wouldn’t be able to see the damage, and I wouldn’t have to hear his pitiful remarks yet.

I noticed the nurse still standing there, her face a mask of confusion and annoyance. She was watching me reach for my bandages that had been discarded so recently. I began wrapping the bandages around my head with my good arm, weaving the thin cloth over and over to ensure the stitched half of my face was covered. I suddenly realized I had forgotten to tell the nurse to let Roger in.

He can come in. I stated, and as she turned to go, I yelled, And would it start a revolution in this hospital if I could get a decent cup of coffee? The nurse looked at me over her shoulder, and I was sure I saw her roll her eyes, so I yelled again. Good coffee! Stout! Not weak and cold like the foul stuff you brought me yesterday!

As I was fixing my bandages around my head and face, being sure to cover as much as I could, I saw Doctor Albert coming down the hallway. He was reading some charts, as usual, and his graying hair was swept back, his receding hairline exposed even more. He looked even older today, and I groaned to think of him poking about right now, when Roger would be coming in. Maybe he was going somewhere else, I thought with hope, but, no, he came straight toward me and stood in the doorway.

Miss Livegood, how are you faring? I hear your injuries have done little to stifle your … lively temperament. He was teasing me, and I frowned. He came in and sat on the end of my bed, once again looking through his papers.

I tilted my head defiantly. If you have more papers for me to sign, they’ll just have to wait. I tried to cross my arms, which is hard to do when you have a cast on. I ended up laying the opposite arm on top of the cast, being careful not to bump it. It hurt enough as it was.

Let’s see your face, he stated, leaning to take off the bandages I had just neatly arranged over my scar.

No! I screamed. Don’t touch me right now.

He sat back, a smirk on his face, his mouth in a thin line. With a sigh, he stood up. I may not be able to check on your stitches again until tonight. Dr. Melvin will be on call after I leave. Do you want him to have a look at them?

I stared at the wall, trying to wish him away. Maybe if I pretend that I’m asleep he’ll go away.

"Miss Livegood, you really must cooperate with us. We’re trying to do the best we can to make sure you are comfortable and taken care of. I really must check your face to see how the stitches are looking. And there are many papers to sign that really shouldn’t