Grace Doll

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments or locales is purely coincidental.

  A Grove Creek Publishing Book

  GRACE DOLL

  Grove Creek Publishing 2012

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright 2012 by Jennifer Laurens

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  For further information:

  Grove Creek Publishing, LLC

  1404 West State Road, Suite 202

  Pleasant Grove, Ut 84062

  Cover: Courtney Lowe

  Book Design: Julia Lloyd, Nature Walk Design

  ISBN: 978-1-933963-10-5

  $13.00

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Acknowledgements

  Playlist

  Other Titles:

  Chapter One

  1949

  They wait for me, the crowd, like savages awaiting a sacrifice. They want me. What I am, what I have.

  Before the limousine comes to a stop, I see searchlights beckoning through endless black sky. Screams and shouts fog the night. Police, strung together like paper dolls, hold back the pressing hordes from the blood red carpet cutting through the carnivorous swarm.

  “Sizzle, darling. Sizzle.” Rufus’ smoky breath warms my neck. His black eyes nail me with a threat he’ll deliver on later if I don’t do what is expected. With the simple thought, action, I take a deep breath and, on cue, prepare to do what he wants: perform.

  After plucking the slim cigar from his lips, Rufus extinguishes it in the ashtray. He slides across the leather upholstery upon which we sit and readies for the door to open.

  Smile in place, I prepare for the onslaught.

  Rufus slips out first. His reception is the cheer for presidents and kings. His towering stature, white suit, black hair slicked back makes him look the part that he is: ruler of Hollywood’s BMB Studio.

  He waves, then extends his hand to me.

  A fast hush blankets the crowd. My heart pounds. I should feel like a princess, I’m Hollywood royalty. But I’m seventeen, living a lie. It never gets easier, being lusted after. Coveted. What once cloaked me with vanity now causes bile to race up my throat.

  Hand in Rufus’, I step out of the car.

  The air erupts with a roar that shakes my body like an earthquake.

  The chant begins. Grace. Grace. Grace.

  My white gown, covered in glimmering beads and pearls, spills to the red carpet stretched out at my feet. A million flashbulbs pop. The smile I wear is pristine. Flawless. Just like he wants. Questions fire from my right. Left. Slips of paper wave like thousands of white flags, pleading for my autograph. Tears stream from weeping eyes, from faces twisted in cries for me to touch them.

  Rufus’ hand anchors around my waist and we begin the walk toward the entrance of Grauman’s Chinese Theater. With each fluid step, the glimmering gown shoots diamonds of light into twisted faces, mouths open—screaming—as I pass.

  A man leaps through the police barricade, lunging at us. Fear grips me. My name tears from his throat. Rufus snarls and tucks me into his side. He quickens our pace. The stranger is surrounded by police and dragged away, his screams for me swallowed up in the liturgical chanting of my name.

  Near the door, I turn one last time as instructed, granting those gathered a final smile. The wave of bodies crushes toward me, my name lost in their cries as people push, fall, and trample for one last glimpse.

  Whisked inside the lobby, the glow of my dress fades in the dim light now surrounding us. Heavy doors close with a final thud. Outside, the chant begins again.

  Grace. Grace. Grace.

  Rufus escorts me to our VIP seats, center section twenty-three rows back. Whispers skitter on perfume-sweetened air. Eyes pierce me with swords of jealousy, loathing, and envy—weapons in Hollywood. Rufus speaks in low tones to a few chosen individuals he deems worthy of his attention—Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, director Louis Perry—then he sits beside me, legs crossed, elbows propped on the arm rests, fingers steepled at his mouth.

  I focus my gaze on the stage and closed red curtain. Excitement for a premier has long been extinguished by reality. I’ve sat through hundreds of dailies, I know what to expect from the final product. If one frame of this picture does not meet with Rufus’ liking, I’ll be punished. Fear lances what’s left of my soul.

  Lights black out. The crowd hushes. Next to me, Rufus’ energy surges like a cobra, erect and ready to strike. Music haunts the air. The curtain parts, sweeping to the sides of the stage. Opening credits flash onscreen: Rufus B. Solomon presents, Paradise Found.

  In a few moments, I see myself: Laughing, enjoying life—flirting with my costar Douglass Winston—who’s flirting back. Seeing myself pretending to be happy takes me away from reality. Acting always does. An escape that has saved and sustained me through my personal hell. I don’t recognize my own laugh—the sound foreign in my private life, unless I’m performing. For a moment I wish I really was the character on screen.

  When it’s time for my co-star to kiss me I watch Rufus in my peripheral vision. His jaw knots.

  * * *

  After the picture, I remain dutifully at Rufus’ side, tirelessly smiling, cordial, lady-like. Even though I star in the film, this is his moment, not mine. I am his creation first, actress second, human being third. I coo, skim his arm, bat lashes, and when Frank Bergman, president of Bright Studios—BMB’s biggest competitor— greets us, I make sure my smile dazzles. Frank sweeps me from head to toe with greedy eyes and Rufus’ arm tightens around my waist as Frank moves onto to greet others.

  From across the theater, Laura Lainhart’s brown eyes fire at me. She’s owned by Frank Bergman. She belongs to Bright Studios. Rufus, catching my gaze says, “She’s getting fat. And old. Her days are numbered and she knows it. Something you’ll never have to worry about, my darling.”

  She’s only twenty-five, I think with a shudder. And she doesn’t look fat, or old. I idolized her once. Secretly, I empathize with her.

  We both signed our lives away.

  I’m shocked when Rufus leads me in her direction. She’s standing with her husband, Douglass Winston—my costar—the actor recently shamed, clinging to his falling star after a drunken scandal he fell into after our film shoot ended, an incident Rufus will never forgive.

  “Rufus.” He and Rufus shake hands. Douglass waits for a compliment that will never come. After an awkward pause, Douglass’ attention shifts to me. “Darling, Grace.” He leans and kisses my cheek. Heat flushes up my neck. Douglass is braver—and more stupid—than I thought. A move like
this will cost him his next job—at any studio. “You were marvelous. Absolutely breathtaking. As usual.” Douglass’ eyes, hard now, shift back to Rufus.

  Rufus’ body stiffens like a statue. I’m certain Rufus will blame me for Douglass’ kiss, because I am certain Douglass has plunged his weapon at Rufus, kissing me to prove that he can work in this town with or without Rufus’ blessing.

  “Be sure you’re well stocked with gin in the unemployment line, old chap.”Rufus’ tone is slick as tar. “Laura. You’ve put on weight.”

  Laura’s eyes widen. I swallow. Rufus’ sword is drawn. Douglass sucks in a loud breath.

  “I wasn’t aware Frank was shooting a film about pigs.” Rufus slides his gaze to Douglass for one last piercing stare.

  He grips my elbow and whisks me up the aisle, through mingling well-wishers. Pain fires up my arm, but I smile and nod, and accept compliments without a hitch. We continue strolling through accolades, accepting the confetti of compliments as the parade continues toward the exit. The open double doors should bring relief. They don’t. My blood chills waiting for what the rest of the evening will bring.

  * * *

  Rufus’ silence on the drive to the Dollhouse slinks into bitter darkness of the Bentley. Our driver, Sheldon, never speaks to Rufus unless spoken to, and he’s not allowed to address me unless Rufus grants him permission. I don’t speak either, unless Rufus speaks to me first.

  Beverly Hills is dark after midnight, lit only by the occasional street lamp once we are off Sunset Boulevard. I gaze at sprawling properties we pass on our way to Bel Air. My heart beats so fast, I’m certain it will burst. Fantasies flash in my head: I open the door and leap out. I lunge for Rufus, strangle him. Or my heart stops beating.

  Sheldon exits the car and opens the gates at the bottom of 21 Chalon Road. He eases the sleek, white Bentley through the opening, his eyes watching through the rear view mirror to ensure the gates close before he continues driving up the private road to the Dollhouse. He never glances at me. The one time he did, Rufus caught him. The next day, the driver had a black eye.

  The white, Spanish-style mansion is lit up like an ornate wedding cake, each window glowing with artificial warmth. Rufus had the Dollhouse built for me last year, a spectacle at the top of the Hills to signify his reigning power and his love for me. My cold, clammy hands grip in my lap.

  “Tsk-tsk,” Rufus eyes me and takes my hand. “No perspiring. You’ll ruin the gown.”

  Sheldon drives us around the circular drive, past the fountain Rufus had imported from Italy, and the car stops at the entrance. He gets out and opens Rufus’ door.

  Rufus rounds the car to open the door for me. Sheldon and the Bentley disappear around the side of the house to the eight-car garage where Rufus stows other toys. In the vestibule, he searches for his keys. Cat playing with mouse before tearing into flesh. I swallow.

  “Where are those keys?” he says.

  I stare at the lion head brass knocker centered on the door, my face blank, body beginning to numb. “Ah. Here they are.” He purposefully brushes into me as he pretends to unlock the carved, wooden door. His hand latches onto the knob, holding the door closed, caging me in his stance. His lips near my ear.

  “You were spectacular tonight,” his voice slithers down my spine, wrapping fear around my bones. “Your timing, as usual, was perfect. It’s innate, you know.”

  “Thank you, Rufus.”

  His lips tickle my neck. “I won’t touch the side Douglass kissed.” His whisper sears my skin. Panicked he’ll take me right here; I reach for the handle to push the door open. Maybe I can make it inside. But his hands latch onto my shoulders. My gaze locked on the knob, I start to shake. His finger turns my chin. He expects me to look at him, so I do.

  “Not here, please.” My whispered plea evaporates in the night mist. Rufus removes his white jacket and spreads it on the brick at my feet. His black eyes spark with hunger and he steps closer. Slipping his fingers beneath the gown straps, he slides the jeweled fabric from my shoulders, sending a sparkling of diamonds and beads glittering on the walls and ceiling of the vestibule. “My beautiful Grace.”

  Cool air flashes against my bare chest and belly. Delicately, he eases the dress down my legs, his eyes devouring every inch of skin as it is exposed. His powerful grip pulls me downward until I’m lying on the jacket. Falling stars reflect in his black eyes as the beaded dress shifts beneath us.

  * * *

  Inside, I race up the curved tile stairs. Air chills my nakedness. My body won’t stop aching and I blink back tears. From below, I hear Rufus casually carrying on with the house staff as if we’ve just returned from yet another gala and nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. The staff has learned to keep themselves hidden until Rufus calls for them. I want to think they care about me, that they feel bad that I endure Rufus’ abuse. I want to think they allow me privacy for dignity’s sake. But that’s only a girl’s fading dream of being saved from a nightmare she never wakes up from. I’m his wife, what do I expect?

  I close the double doors of my dressing room and toss the gown on the bed. Tears rush up my throat, choking me. My reflection in the full-length mirrors disgusts me. I despise the white gartered stockings, the corset Rufus has had imported—one of dozens—from France for his amusement, the glittering heels.

  I kick them off.

  And sob.

  A soft knock stops me. Rufus would barge in. Still, the staff has eyes and ears, and Rufus has warned me countless times never to let my guard down around any of them. Sizzle, Grace. Sizzle.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I draw you a bath, miss?” It’s Rowena. She takes care of my rooms, my clothes, and does whatever I need her to do. I wish I could tell her to kill Rufus.

  “Yes, please.”

  She enters like a mouse and scurries into the bathroom. Soon water begins to fill the massive, white marble tub. “Shall I help you into the bath, miss?” She emerges from the bathroom. In her black and white uniform, white napkin cap topping her muddy-brown hair, she’s peacefully plain. Her life is so simple. I wish we could change places.

  I clutch myself, shake my head and cross to the bath. I’ve undressed in front of hundreds of eyes before, including Rowena’s.

  Show business.

  Rowena takes my undergarments and the gown and leaves me alone. I dip into the hot water. I fantasize about drowning myself. About having the physical strength to hold Rufus under the hot liquid and watch him die. I even consider climbing out the second story window, jumping into the pool below knowing I’ll drown because I can’t swim. Rufus had my rooms built over the pool for that reason.

  Sighing, I close my eyes against tears. Hate and frustration surge through me like a monster with gnashing teeth. A hate so intense, so deeply embedded in my soul my thoughts turn to a grief impossible to outrun. I’d tried to run once—home. But a girl with a face the world knows can’t get very far. Two days later home was burned to the ground. Mother and Father and my four sisters all perished in the fire. When what few remaining relatives I had were ‘taken care of’ by Rufus’ irresistible money, I was left an orphan with Rufus as my only guardian.

  I lower into the tub and submerge into searing liquid, the cleansing I yearn for unreachable.

  * * *

  Later, I join Rufus in the living room. I’m exhausted, but he insists I join him at the end of each evening no matter how late the hour or how weary I am. Timing, Grace. I step down into the expansive room filled with collected antiques, accented coved ceilings, and French doors. Frank Sinatra’s Someone to Watch Over Me plays from the phonograph—our song, Rufus said. What he doesn’t know is that Jonathan has already claimed the song—for him and me. White flowers in tall vases fill empty nooks and table tops. Scattered on the hardwood floor are leopard throw rugs, the creatures’ jaws gape, their eyes staring in frozen ferocity. Portraits and photographs of me hang everywhere, like trophies. Four white couches face a massive fireplace where flames lea
p and roar but a tremor of fear sends a chill through my bones. I hate fire. Fire killed my family, leaving me alone.

  Rufus, in a black silk smoking jacket and black silk slacks, sits on the couch facing the fire, a slim cigar smoldering from his lips. He looks every bit the conqueror that he is. Conqueror, tyrant, dictator. Husband.

  The French dressing gown he bought me whispers against my skin as I cross the floor. He smiles up at me. His leading-man good looks, handsome and deceptive, once made my knees go soft.

  “Ah.” He pats the empty white space next to him. “There’s my beautiful Grace.”

  I sit next to him and he brings me into his side, kissing the top of my head. “You’re so warm.” He jerks back, extinguishes his cigar in the waiting ashtray and presses his palm to my forehead a deep line creased between his brows. “Are you ill? You’re burning up.” His hands feel my arms, cheeks, neck.

  “I’m fine. I took a hot bath.”

  The tension in his face relaxes. “Too hot for your delicate skin.” He strokes my cheek with his fingers.

  “The heat relaxes me,” I lie.

  His hands slide to my shoulders and start massaging me gently. “I can relax you.”

  “I should go to bed. I have an early call.”

  His hands move from my shoulders and cup my cheeks. “How early?”

  “Five. That gives me four hours to sleep.”

  Rufus nods and draws my lips to his. “Go. Sleep.” He releases me. “No reading. You need to be fresh for the camera.”

  I leave him sitting by the fire. With each step up the stairs my muscles slowly sigh in relief.

  I am done for the night.

  Chapter Two

  After eight hours under hot stage lights, my head throbs. No doubt only four hours sleep the night before contributes. I try to smile. Can’t be irritable. I’m Rufus’ eight-by-ten glossy.

  Between takes, I sit in the black canvas chair that has my name scrolled across the back: Grace Doll.