Great Big Beautiful Life(75)

She was not graceful, poised, demure, or reserved. She was silly, irreverent, and clumsy, and the press adored her for it. The Tabloid Princess, they called her.

She attended her mother’s movie premieres, often with one of the film’s leads, and was once photographed on the back of James Dean’s motorcycle, clutching a wedding veil to her head and laughing as they peeled away from the curb.

They were only seen together one other time after that, the night after which she was spotted at dinner with another up-and-comer.

This earned her a new nickname: Two-Date Peggy.

The truth was, she hadn’t been on even one date with James Dean. The wedding veil was a gag, a wrap gift that Bernie had jokingly given him when they finished filming A Western Wind Blows.

Margaret had been visiting her mother when she bumped into Jimmy and mentioned that she’d always wanted to ride a motorcycle. He’d volunteered to make her day, and she’d popped the veil onto her head, hiking her skirt up and swinging one leg over the motorcycle’s seat behind him.

She didn’t worry about what the press would say. Her whole life outside of the House of Ives had been carefully observed, but at least it was hers.

She was an expert at chitchat, at having a bit of fun, and doing so fought back the loneliness of her life at home without any real risk.

The more they wrote about her exploits, the less gravity any of it seemed to have to her. Laura was different.

The more fascinated the paparazzi became with Margaret, the more salacious their gossip, the less Laura was willing to leave the house. She withered, she wandered, she read to her grandfather and recorded his own stories. She listened to the radio and argued with him about the merit of the newly popular rock ’n’ roll. She pushed his wheelchair on walks through the grounds, and described the sunset to him, and while she insisted to Margaret that she was perfectly happy with her life, Margaret worried.

She worried endlessly about her softhearted younger sister. Their grandfather’s health was declining fast, and while she didn’t know that she’d ever understand her sister’s friendship with him, Margaret was terrified about what would happen to Laura once he was gone. When, someday, their parents were gone too.

Margaret begged Laura to go out with her, to meet people their age. To attend dinners, to appear at fundraisers and visit art museums and take drives down to the beach—or join her on boats with the handsome men and beautiful starlets she befriended!

But the inevitable attention terrified Laura. “I don’t want to be photographed,” she’d say. “I don’t want to be seen.”

Margaret would sometimes go to visit her mother at work, or walk past her father’s mahogany office at home, and catch the tail end of a murmured phone call between her parents.

They’d take turns in the two distinct roles of worrier and consoler. They’d promise each other that their younger daughter would be all right. They’d agree not to push her.

And then Cosmo Sinclair came to town.

The Boy Wonder of Rock ’n’ Roll.

At least that was the nickname he’d had two years earlier, before a different singer usurped him as King.

Now the tabloids—the same ones calling Margaret Two-Date Peggy—had dubbed him the Poor Man’s Elvis.

But neither of these titles were what interested Margaret. His music didn’t really interest her either, from what she’d heard at that point.

The only thing that interested her about Cosmo Sinclair was her younger sister’s total adoration of him, and the fact that he’d be performing at the Pan Pacific Auditorium soon.

She had an idea. It ballooned into an obsession. That snowballed into a plan.

One night.

She would sneak her sister out of the house for one perfect night.

That was all it would take to change their lives forever.





23




“Where’s Jodi?” I ask Margaret as she’s walking me back through her house to the front door at the end of our session.

“Taking some much-needed time off.” She gives me a dry look. “Apparently, I’m something of a pill.”

“Hard to swallow, but ultimately good for your health?” I ask.

She laughs, grabs my arm affectionately as we reach the door, and she pulls it open. “Now, you’re prepared for the storm, aren’t you?”

“The storm?” I step out under yet another late-afternoon scorcher of a Georgia day, but note that while we were inside, the cirrus clouds that were hanging along the horizon have been replaced by great dark masses, the wind ripping through the front garden, making everything shiver.

“News is tracking it,” she says. “Should get to us tomorrow, and it’s not a hurricane yet, but…you know how these things are.”

“June through November,” I agree, scanning the sky one more time.

“I guess you forgot what it’s like when it rains, out in Hollywood,” she teases me.

I smile. “I did, actually.”

“Well, you’re welcome to come hunker down here, if you want,” she says. “We’ve got a guy coming to cover the windows and everything tomorrow. You’d better make sure there’s a plan at your place.”

“I’ll check with the rental management company,” I promise, and then she sends me on my way.