Page 870 of One More Kiss

Chapter4

A weekafter auditions and final cast selections—two more days of call-backs and deliberation—they had finalized their cast, including the Beatrice of Lu’s choice. He’d wanted the much sassier June Wyatt, but had been overruled by Lu and Dean Clark, who apparently took her side on all things theater, despite his insistence to Max he would be Miss Danvers’ equal in this process.

Max shouldn’t care, really. He’d escaped his fate in Hollywood; leaving had assured the studio would not be under attack from the federal government any longer and return to making the pictures they wanted without interference.

Hiding away in the quiet North Carolina mountains—a place so foreign to Max it might as well have been the Arctic Circle—afforded him the solace he’d long needed to work on his novel.

Only now his spy thriller had veered into a romance.

He yanked the paper from his typewriter and tore it in half with a satisfying rrrrrip.

“I thought you were still here, sir. Burning the midnight oil?”

Clyde’s soft voice startled Max, causing him to jump up from the comfort of his padded leather chair.

“Good evening Clyde. Please, stop calling me sir. Max. Please. I am not much older than you. Sit, please.” Max motioned to the wooden chair across from his desk.

“Thank you, si—I mean, Max. What are you working on?”

“Nothing good, I can assure you. A better question would be, why are you still here?” Max glanced at his watch. It was nearing nine o’clock.

“Grading the last of the Daisy Miller essays.”

“Anything worth showing me?

“One or two, but rather pedantic stuff for the most part.”

“Ah, too bad. The poor Miss Miller deserves so much better, does she not?”

Clyde laughed and ran his hand through his hair. “Would you like to get supper? I noticed you haven’t eaten and it is late.”

Max hadn’t even been hungry until he’d realized the lateness of the hour. Now his appetite was draining him of all logical thought.

“You know what, Clyde? Yes. What’s good around here?” He’d been in town for well over a month, but hadn’t ventured far from the confines of the campus.

Clyde’s face brightened. “The Montford Inn’s steaks can’t be beat around here. We’d have to drive over, or if you’re game, walk through the park to get there.”

Max realized Clyde’s gaze had fallen to Max’s expensive suit, and by extension, highly-polished—and costly—derby shoes.

Max waved off the younger man’s concern. “Let’s walk. I need the fresh air and activity. My body will revolt soon if I don’t let it move.”

“I think your body looks fine.” Clyde’s voice was barely a whisper and his gaze lingered on Max for another moment before Clyde snapped his head toward the door. “I’ll grab my coat and meet you in the lobby.”

He rushed out and Max pulled his hat and scarf from the coat rack next to the door of the office. Clyde’s behavior had grown odd in the last few moments of conversation, and Max had an inkling as to why. He’d seen it in his brother, when he’d had feelings for someone and wasn’t sure if they were reciprocated. However, Max couldn’t address his concerns with Clyde directly, because an incorrect assumption of this nature would cause both of them untold amounts of humiliation.

Let it go, Max.

So he did.

Supper was pleasant, and Max may have had one too many whiskey sours to wash down his steak. Clyde drove the conversation, but made it all about Max.

What did it feel like to win an Oscar?

“Amazing.”

But an achievement wiped out by false accusations and blacklisting.

What was it like working with Montgomery Clift? What was he like?

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