“I’m sure of it. This inconvenience might just work itself out. Now, how about some hot broth and crackers?”
“Guess so,” Ruby said. She had to get over this sickness soon. The film in New Mexico wouldn’t wait.
* * *
Ruby took her designated place on set, which was an old farmhouse in New Mexico with monument rock formations in the background. The days were dry but still blazing hot, even for early October.
“Places, everyone,” the director called out.
Ruby wore a brown wool skirt that brushed the dusty, wooden floor. The wardrobe supervisor had carefully smudged Ruby’s wrinkled cotton shirt with dirt. Her hair was swept haphazardly from her face. She would have looked even more haggard except for the time she spent in makeup every morning. The makeup artist had a knack for covering the hollows under her eyes and cheekbones.
Still, Ruby fit the part of a weary woman on an unknown frontier.
Due to nausea, Ruby could hardly eat. She nibbled little during the day, except for saltine crackers and Vivienne’s lemon juice and baking soda concoction. In the evening, her nausea lessened, so she managed to keep down fresh vegetables and protein for the baby. Mostly, she stayed in her trailer out of the sun, resting with a cool cloth on her forehead to preserve her strength for filming. Never in her life had she felt so tired.
“Hey, Slim,” the director said, using his nickname for her. He approached her on the set. “After seeing the rushes last night, I have a few pointers for you. Overall, excellent work. But today’s scene will be highly emotional. Are you up for that?”
Ruby nodded. “You can count on me.” Knowing she would soon have a baby depending on her deepened her commitment to work. Ruby conferred with him for a few minutes. In the evenings, the director reviewed the footage they’d shot so they could do retakes before moving on to another setting or location.
Today, retakes didn’t seem likely. Summoning the warring thoughts that raced through her mind—the baby, Niccolò, her mother and father—Ruby hit every emotional high the scene required. After one particularly gut-wrenching break-down, when the director called cut the crew broke out in applause.
Her co-star, who’d earned many awards in his illustrious career, winked and shook her hand. “That was Oscar-worthy, my dear. Simply brilliant.”
After the daily shoots, Ruby wrote to Niccolò. When she could, she went to the nearest small town to call her aunt. Yet every time Ruby called to inquire, Vivienne said she still hadn’t received any more letters from Niccolò.
He’d simply stopped writing.
Ruby worried that something had happened to Niccolò. If only she’d stayed in Rome, she would have known. Maybe he was in the hospital. If he were ill, she hoped his mother was nursing him back to health. Ruby wished she could remember the address of his parents so she could write to Carolina Mancini. But at the time, she’d simply gone along with Niccolò, not bothering to note the address or even the street.
Maybe he’d even died. But Ruby couldn’t bear to think about that.
Nor did she want to face what her aunt asserted—that Niccolò no longer loved her. How could that be? The love she had for him would never dim.
Filming seemed to drag on. By December, the film was nearly finished. One Saturday, Ruby got a ride into the nearby town, where she made a telephone call from a payphone at the local Rexall Drugstore.
Her agent had sent an urgent telegram to the set the day before. Call as soon as you can. Have big offer for you.
Ruby connected to the operator and gave her Joseph’s telephone number in Hollywood.
The operator placed the call. When Joseph picked up, the operator said, “I have a collect call for Mr. Joseph Applebaum from Miss Ruby Raines. Will you accept the charges?”
“Absolutely.” The operator clicked off, and Joseph went on. “You’ll never believe who called back and is now offering you three times the original offer.” He told her the part she’d declined for January was alive again. “Maxwell Banksy, and the film is called Forever a Rebel.”
Ruby leaned against the wall. “Joseph, I need to take some time off.”
“Sweetheart, you’ll have two weeks at the end of December.”
“I need more time.”
“Come on, your part shoots in January and February. By Valentine’s Day, you’ll be free.” He named a figure that was far more money than she’d ever made.
Ruby was tempted. Quickly, she calculated the weeks—and her bank balance. With the right costumes, she could pull it off. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
Properly concealed, she could work up to six months. And maybe Niccolò would surprise her.
Ruby gripped the phone. “But after that, I need a break.”
“You don’t take a vacation just when you’re getting hot,” Joseph said. “I can get you into Wyler’s next film. He’s already asking about you.”
Ruby bit her lip. She’d love to work with Mr. Wyler again. “When will that be?”
“Filming is on schedule for April. Pretty short notice, but you can take a couple of weeks off in March. This is your moment. Don’t let up now.”
By her calculations, the baby was due in early May. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”
“And I can’t represent moody actresses who don’t feel like working,” Joseph said, clearly frustrated. “You don’t work, I don’t get paid. Come on, Ruby, don’t pass up this golden opportunity. You told me you wanted to work and make money, so give me one good reason why you can’t take this part.”
And then, even though Vivienne had warned her, Ruby had to tell him. She cupped her hand around the receiver and turned to the wall. “I’m going to have a baby,” she whispered.
Over the phone line, Joseph let out a string of curses. “Who knows about this?”
“Only my aunt. And my doctor.”
“Don’t ruin your career.” Joseph’s voice dropped. “I know someone who takes care of problems like this. It can all go away. I’ll set up an appointment as soon as you get back.”
Ruby knew what he meant, and she was horrified. Vivienne had suggested the same thing one day. “I’m married.”
“Oh, jeez. Is your husband in Los Angeles?”
“He’s in Italy.” Tears pooled in her eyes as she thought of Niccolò.
“Why isn’t he with you?”
Why indeed? Ruby couldn’t get the words out.
Joseph cursed again. “You’re far too young for this.”
“Elizabeth Taylor was eighteen when she married Nicky Hilton.”
“Yeah, eighteen,” Joseph said. “And divorced eight months later. You’re not eighteen.”
“Almost,” Ruby shot back. “My passport says otherwise.”
“You’re making a huge mistake,” Joseph said. “The contracts you sign have a detailed morals clause, among others. You’re in violation, so that’s cause for termination.”
Ruby bit her lip. She’d heard horror stories about actors fired for even minor infractions. But surely being married would make a difference. She could explain everything.