Page 7 of Welcome to Gothic
She told him, “You’re paying for travel time, fast action, and there aren’t many women who could do what I did on a moment’s notice.” Actually, Wendy didn’t have a clue what stuntwomen did in 1940, but she would bet they made half what the men did so... because he’d doubled her salary to get her there in a hurry, she’d made what a man did.
“I like you, kid,” Percy said. “Wendy... who?”
Wendy was used to people not remembering her last name. “Wendy Giordano.”
“You could be a star if you’d change that last name to sound American.”
“IamAmerican,” she said icily.
“Sure, and my real name is Milton Minkus, but that and a nickel will get me a cup of coffee.” Percy got a crooked smile on his face. “Look, there’s the real princess.”
Wendy followed his gaze.
A toddler, a little girl about eighteen months old, roamed the backstage in a white smocked dress, white ruffled socks and black patent leather shoes. She smiled a gap-toothed smile at everyone she saw, delighting in the world around her.
“Who’s that?” Wendy asked.
“That’s Miss Lindholm’s daughter, Hazel. She’s a doll, loves the theater like her mother, wanders back here charming us all while her mother’s onstage.” Percy knelt and held out his arms.
Hazel came right over and climbed in.
Percy stood with the little girl on his arm and said, “Hazel, this is a friend of your mum’s. Do you like her?”
Hazel jumped so fast Wendy’s reflexes almost failed her. She caught the child, they both laughed and quieted when Percy shushed them. Already, Hazel knew she had to be quiet backstage.
“I’m Wendy. What’s your name?”
“Hazel.H-A-Z-E-LLindholm.” Hazel recited her name as she’d been trained to.
“Hazel, what would you like to do?”
“Go!” Hazel pointed to the door.
Wendy looked at Percy.
“Sure, take her outside. It won’t hurt her to run around. When you bring her back in, give her to the nursemaid.” He pointed to a young woman standing in the wings staring fixedly at Hugh. “She ought to be taking the baby home anyway. It’s past Hazel’s bedtime.”
Wendy glanced around, located a huge black-and-white school clock on the wall and said, “I guess! It’s almost nine o’clock.”
“If everybody does their parts right, the play’s over at ten.” Jungle drums picked up a beat, the dancers started onto the stage and Percy sprang toward them, stage-whispering, “The crocodile! Don’t forget the crocodile.”
Two of the dancers turned back and pushed a large purple-velvet plush crocodile to the back of the stage.
“Come on,” Wendy said to Hazel, and took her out the stage door and into the gathering dusk.
Hazel struggled to get down, and Wendy put her on her feet, then herded the toddling child toward Gothic’s main street.
The Pacific Coast Highway had been completed in 1937. That year, Maeve Lindholm traveled in her Duesenberg SJ north from Hollywood, turned right on Nacimiento-Fergusson Road, drove to the top of the Widow’s Peak overlooking the Pacific and announced she would build her castle here.
The Gothic village Wendy knew hadn’t taken form yet; the road’s steep seven hairpin turns and some of the lots had been laid out, but the roadbed was gravel and only a few buildings broke the vast emptiness of Big Sur. The grand, mostly finished Gothic Palace theater sat alone on the edge of a curve. The lower edge of town was marked by the raw-looking Gothic General Store.
Two buses painted Army green were parked nearby, which explained the number of uniforms Wendy had seen in the audience. All around cars were parked: early twentieth century black carriage-looking cars with spoke wheels, colorful cars that looked almost modern, sporty convertibles.
Fittingly, there was a gas station and car repair garage across the street.
In one roped-off section, men in dark suits and brimmed hats stood beside what were obviously high-end cars, smoking cigarettes and rubbing the fenders with their rags. Chauffeurs, Wendy assumed.
They wolf-whistled and leered at her jungle outfit.
