Stranded in Paradise (17 page)

Tess leaned back to digest the information. “And your husband was involved?”

“Yes, Edgar was involved. In 1946 the Screen Actors Guild was listed as a union with communist influences. So, some so-called friendly witnesses were called before the Un-American Activities Committee to be interviewed. Robert Taylor, Richard Arlen, Adolphe Menjou. Jack Warner, head of Warner Brothers Studio, named people on the studio's payroll that he suspected of harboring left-wing sympathies, including my husband.”

“Was
he involved?” she asked.

Stella drew a deep shuddering breath, and Tess could see that simply talking about that time in her life disturbed her. “I'm sorry. This is too sad for you.”

The old woman stroked Henry, her eyes misting with unshed tears. “It's still painful, yet when I look back on my life I see this as one of those defining moments on which life-altering decisions were made. Edgar was called before the committee in Washington, D.C. He didn't want me to come, and I was busy on a film so I didn't go. Now I wish that I had. I'd have known what was happening. He never talked about it later, but I knew Marsha Hunt and she told me what happened.

“Marsha, too, had been blacklisted. She went to Washington with Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, and Danny Kaye. They hoped to generate positive publicity for those trying to defend themselves against those horrible charges, but their good intentions backfired. They had prepared statements that they planned to read when called to witness. But only one was allowed to read his statement. The rest were dismissed from the witness table, almost before they started.

“Anyway, others had better luck. Lucille Ball's testimony was so garbled and meaningless that she was allowed to be excused without stigma. That wasn't like Lucy at all—Lucille was a brilliant woman. If only Desi could have stayed away from the women . . .

“Writers like Clifford Odets never wrote again. Others managed to work behind the scenes, using other names, or worked in Mexico and in Europe. The rumor mill said John Garfield's death was linked to his appearance before the committee. It was an awful time.” Stella shook her head as if to clear away the memory.

“Many directors kept working but changed their names. Edgar wouldn't do that. He said he couldn't pretend to be someone or something other than what he was. He was called before the committee after being named by Jack Warner; we don't know how that happened. Jack was probably trying to protect his studio. We could never find any real reason for his actions.”

“It must have been a terrible time for both you and your husband.” Tess stared at the cold cup of tea.

“Edgar never worked again.” Stella's trembling fingers wrapped around her coffee cup. “He told the committee that he'd never been to any kind of meeting that could be called communist. I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure what was right or wrong, truth or lie. People you trusted turned on friends. You didn't know if you were next. It was a horrible time.

“Edgar went into a depression. Nothing I could do or say would draw him out of it.”

“You . . . had reservations about your husband's innocence?”

Stella's head snapped up. “I'm sorry to say that I did— at first. There were days, sometimes weeks, when I was confused. Edgar refused to deny or confess anything. He was a man of principle,” she said proudly, “and he expected his actions to speak louder than any statement. We left Hollywood and moved here, to Maui.”

“Was your husband's name ever cleared?”

“Eventually, but it was too late. By then he was dead.”

Tess cleared her throat to break the rickety silence. “I'm so sorry. It's so unfair.”

Stella looked up, her hands resting on Henry's glossy coat. “Life isn't about fairness.”

Tess kept silent.

“I should have trusted Edgar more; I wouldn't have missed out on one of the most important things in my life: the ability to help Edgar in his darkest hour.” Her eyes met Tess's.

“If God's so powerful, why doesn't He just make the bad things go away?” The words materialized from Tess's mind and she bit down hard on her lower lip.

“I can't answer that question. But I do know that time did teach me about faith. Adversity tends to do that; it forces us to sink our roots deep into God's faithfulness or we'll surely topple over.”

“Then God let Edgar be destroyed in order for what? To make your faith stronger?”

“I don't know what His purpose was; I will never know until I speak with Him personally. But the experience did make me stronger.”

“But your husband's name was cleared too late.”

“Perhaps. But if it had been cleared earlier, we wouldn't have moved here, wouldn't have had those
wonderful
years together. We'd have kept working day and night, wasting more time on the pursuit of fame and earthly possessions than on being together.” She smiled. “Everything that we work so hard for will either be used up, discarded, or belong to someone else someday. It's a sobering realization, isn't it? I think the reason I had occasional doubts was because Edgar and I had taken too little time to get to know each other. Here, in this beautiful paradise, we were given that time. What a precious gift!”

Tess picked up a throw pillow and held it tightly to her chest. Inside, her emotions churned. What would it be like to trust so implicitly that the outcome didn't matter? To rest so completely in another person's—or deity's—love that the outcome simply wouldn't matter? Something deep inside her twisted—and ached for such a belief.

“You find trust very difficult, don't you, my dear?” Stella gently stoked Henry's fur. “Once I felt the same, but I wish I could help you know the peace that comes from trust—trusting with all your heart.”

“Faith and trust weren't Nelson family values,” Tess admitted.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Stella's features softened. “We can't pick our parents; we can only become wiser as adults.”

Tess straightened, pitching the pillow aside.

“I think I'll see if Carter needs my help.”

Stella smiled, reaching for the teapot. “You do that, Dear. Perhaps God has provided this time for the two of you to become better acquainted.”

14

“We'll be dry in here.” Carter opened the door as she ducked into the garage, where stacks of plywood littered the floor. He had managed to get all the boards put up along the back and sides of the house, but the wind made the work difficult, pushing against the plywood as he carried it out. Turning around, his eyes registered her comical attire. Stella had lent her Edgar's old coveralls. They dragged on the floor by a good four inches, and the seat drooped practically to her knees.

“They're not a fashion statement, but they'll help keep you dry,” the old woman had promised.

Carter smirked and turned back to his work. He gave a pull on the generator's cord. It roared to life. After a few minutes he turned it off. “That's ready, should we need it.” He glanced up at her, then motioned to a paint can on the concrete floor. “Best seat in the house.”

She took a discarded rag and dusted off the top before she sat down. Dried pink spatters lined the rim of the bucket. Rain hammered the tile roof, but the shelter's interior felt almost cozy compared to the chaos outside.

“How's Stella?”

“She's holding up okay. She seems pretty calm about all this.”

She stared at dark stains dotting the concrete floor. “I don't understand why she's treating the storm so lightly. She doesn't seem concerned about the house, and she knows how destructive hurricanes can be.”

“Maybe she's lived through enough storms that she has a sixth sense about the danger—though it's risky reasoning. Older people feel a need to protect their homes . . .” his words trailed off.

Carter sat down on the cold cement beside her. The dampness made dark curls in his hair.

She found herself staring at him. “Naturally curly hair?”

Carter's face turned bright crimson. He leaned to wipe a streak of wet hair off her cheek. The simple, innocent gesture warmed her.

They listened to the roar of the waves. Then Tess's halting voice emerged from the fading daylight, “Did you know that Stella's husband was blacklisted by the McCarthy hearings?” She told him about Edgar, and the injustice that had befallen him and Stella in the late fifties.

“Edgar was a strong man,” she concluded. “Or maybe he wasn't. He died too soon still thinking that his name was besmirched.”

“I imagine that he knows,” Carter said quietly as gusts of wind and rain battered the small garage.

When she remained quiet, he reached over and tugged her pant leg. “You don't agree?”

“If you're implying that he was a Christian so therefore today he is in heaven . . . I think I'd be a little bitter, if I were Edgar.”

“And how would bitterness enrich your life?” She shrugged.

“You're a tough nut to crack, Nelson. Bitterness destroys
you
—not the thing or person you're bitter against.”

She reached over and yanked his earlobe playfully. “More Christian philosophy?”

He grinned and lay back, cradling his head in crossed arms. She and Carter fell silent—the nice kind of shared silence that didn't produce a need to talk. After awhile he said, “I guess I should be out there hammering plywood again. Only four windows to go. Care to help me haul these boards?”

“I guess not.” She couldn't see how he was going to get the wood up in gale winds. Carter hummed as he gathered up his supplies for another round of hammering.

Lulled by the sound of rain striking the roof and the soft timbre of Carter's voice, she closed her eyes. The camaraderie between them was nice, more than nice. Trusting. She had enjoyed few such relationships.

Wind snapped a branch and the limb shattered a windowpane. She jumped and scooted closer.

“What's wrong—the glass didn't get you, did it?” Carter shouted above the roar of the storm.

“No—don't you have a flashlight?” Darkness was quickly approaching. They had gotten all but this last piece of plywood in place. At least the board would keep out the rain until the glass could be replaced.

“Yes—somewhere.”

He scooted around, trying to locate the object. Eventually his hand closed around the aluminum and he crawled back to her. Switching on the beam, he pointed the beam in her eyes. She pulled it out of his hand and directed it at the hole in the glass. “Let's get this up fast,” she said, grabbing the corner of the piece of plywood and wrestling it into place. Carter quickly pounded nails into the four corners first before adding a few more along the sides. When he was done he looked over at her rain-soaked face. “What's wrong?” he said, pulling her inside the house.

“Okay. I'm scared. Happy?”

“Delirious.” He shifted back to show her a cheesy grin. “What's not to be happy about? We're in a hurricane. We've had nine days of nothing but whale watching, luau's, and—hey—did you get your picture taken with the parrot? The one that digs his claws into your shoulder and draws blood?”

“I missed that.”

His playfully drew her closer and in a mock conspiratorial whisper and said, “Now tell Carter what Tess is afraid of. Wind?”

“I hate storms, and no, I . . . I don't like wind. I was in a tornado once. I—I can't stand the sound of wind—”

“Yeah, well. I don't like wind, either. But together we'll ride this thing out.”

She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes for just a moment. Oddly enough she felt better. Tomorrow she would regret this spurt of idiocy, but right now she was going with it.

“Have you seen the movie
The Perfect Storm?
” she ventured.

He gave her a wry look. “Chatting about
The Perfect Storm
right now makes about as much sense as United Airlines featuring an airline disaster movie on their transatlantic flights.” He squeezed her shoulders. “We're taking proper precautions, and now we turn it over to—”

“God.” Her defensive tone was gone. For the first time in her life she started to believe it. Carter smiled that broad, beaming smile of his.

“How many children are there in your family?” she asked, suddenly wanting to know more about him.

“I have an older sister. No other siblings.”

“I have a younger brother. What's your favorite dessert?”

“Cheesecake—with red stuff swirled through it.”

“Lemon pie.”

“Lemon
pie?”

“That's my favorite. School?” she asked.

“Humm?”

“Where did you go to school?”

“High school—Chicago. Graduated from Baylor University in Waco, Texas. Business major.”

“DePauw; Indiana. Master's degrees in finance and psychology.”

He let out a low whistle. “Two? As suspected, you're an overachiever.”

“What about your grades?”

“They were okay. Dean's list every semester.”

“Dean's list is better than ‘okay.' What kind of car do you drive?”

“What's this interrogation all about?”

“Nothing.” She was suddenly defensive, “I thought since we've become part of each other's lives in the last nine days we should know something about each other.”

Carter gently released her gaze and pushed to his feet. “We better see what Stella's up to.” He looked through the small opening he had left in the window. The fury intensified.

She lifted her voice. “Is it the hurricane?”

“I'd say.” Carter said. “By the looks of things, the eye isn't going to miss us by much.”