Page 117 of Mazywood

Sam didn’t answer, frozen in place while they both waited for the outcome of the phone call. The back door inched open and Diahann Carroll stuck her head out, hugging herself to keep warm from the cold. She’d been inside all day, so she was wearing a thin blouse.

“Phone for Sam!” Diahann called.

“Who is it?” he asked, voice thin as he held his breath.

Diahann giggled. “It’s Frank Sinatra,” she said. This girl was ethereally beautiful and a sensation in her own right, but at twenty-two she was still so easily starstruck.

Sam’s face went from drawn and terrified to grinning wide with relief. He looked like the young boy he’d been when he started tap-dancing, not one of the most successful performers in the world. Sam would always be starstruck. That was Sam.

“I hope you’re not giving out my number all over town,” Mazelle told him. “I thought you said you wanted to lay off the phone for a couple days.”

“It’s Frank, come on!” Sam said. He dashed away from her toward the porch steps.

That was one way to get him back in the house quick, all right. She couldn’t stand the way he always seemed to be licking Sinatra’s boots, but at least he was going inside.

Diahann mouthed at Mazelle where Sam couldn’t see as he passed her: Sinatra!

“I mean it, Sam, I don’t like my phone ringing day and night,” Mazelle called after Sam, in part to remind Diahann that Frank Sinatra was only a man, not a deity. Starstruck young performers were easy prey in show business. “People come here for quiet, including me—and I don’t care who it is either.”

Inside, Sam cradled her modern white wall telephone to his ear like he was whispering to a lover. “What have you heard, man?” he asked. Mazelle couldn’t make out Sinatra’s words, but the voice on the other end of the line was as excited as Sam, speaking rapidly with his voice raised. Two audible words crackled through the receiver: fucking moron.

What new mess had Sam gotten himself into now?

But she was glad he was in her kitchen, which was free of bugs living or dead and had spotless art deco black-and-white floor tiles. Marguerite was a disciplined young woman who wore a formal white uniform and chef’s hat, although women chefs were nearly unheard of. She was pulling a pan of cornbread out of the oven, since Mazelle had told her to serve a mix of fine cuisine and soul food. Every meal was a mystery, but also a delight. Last night’s dinner had been Louisiana gumbo with duck.

Back inside, Mazelle almost forgot about the carnage outside. She took Diahann’s hand to lead her politely out of the kitchen so Sam could carry on his phone call in peace. Marguerite was so good at being invisible that Sam wouldn’t notice her, but no one could ignore the presence of Diahann Carroll.

“Put on some more music for us,” Mazelle urged her, and she rushed upstairs.

Grady had fashioned himself a small apartment in the attic, since he always stayed at the lodge when she was there. Mazelle went to his door and slipped a note of instructions under it before she knocked to wake him. I’ll explain the rest later, she’d written at the end. Then she went down to the second floor to her children’s room to tell them to come to dinner. It struck her, gazing at her children’s faces, that most mothers would not be able to juggle delivering macabre instructions to one door and a cheerful smile to her children with promises for dessert if they eat all their vegetables at the next, but she knew she was not ordinary.

The children always ate in the kitchen when the lodge had guests, so Mazelle was alone with Sam and Diahann at the table when Grady came downstairs and nodded to her. He had a well-trimmed white beard and wore his black driver’s uniform and cap with pride. Sam and Diahann barely noticed him when he leaned behind Mazelle at the table to receive the large key ring she’d hidden in her pocket. Then he slipped out of the house without a word.

Mazelle hoped he wouldn’t spy any of Scout’s mess. Or run into Scout. Lord, would she be forced to shut her lodge down?

Then Marguerite brought out the peach tarts drizzled with cinnamon icing, her Southern variation on an apple tart recipe. After dinner, Mazelle sent Ricky and Sadie back upstairs, while she, Diahann, and Sam retired to the living room. When Sam poured his second glass of straight scotch from her bar, Mazelle knew she would soon learn the magnitude of what was facing Mr. Wonderful. He couldn’t hold a drink.

Diahann flipped through Mazelle’s record collection on several shelves of her bookshelf with murmurs of appreciation. In addition to Diahann’s own record, and Lena’s and Sam’s, Mazelle’s collection was stocked with Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, and the stunning new John Coltrane record. If anyone wanted to read at Mazywood, they needed to bring their books with them. Music ruled the shelves here.

“Who’s in the mood for love songs?” Diahann said. “I’m always in the mood for Nat.”

No one answered, so she put on “When I Fall in Love” while Mazelle studied Sam. He saw her watching him and walked quickly toward her as if Nat’s silken voice had given him resolve. He cast a glance toward Diahann, who was still enjoying the record collection, and then raised himself to try to whisper in Mazelle’s ear. But he was tipsy, so a whisper it was not.

“Marry me, Mazelle,” he said.

Diahann’s head whipped around with shock—she’d heard him, all right!—but then she remembered herself and turned back to the shelves. She seemed to want to flee the room almost as much as she wanted to stay.

“Are you out of your mind?” Mazelle asked. She did a better job of keeping her voice low.

She and Sam had smooched once soon after they’d met following a casual beachside lunch, since he liked to smooch with every girl. But she wasn’t physically attracted to his petite frame or the lost little boy in his eye, and they certainly had never dated.

“You’re the only one who gets me,” he said. “The only one I can be honest with. At least you’ll never have to worry about money.”

“Do I look like I’m worried about money?” Mazelle said, although the truth was that she wouldn’t have accepted her bland radio gig if she didn’t have so many outstanding bills. She’d negotiated a piece of her box office in her final contract with Lorenzo, which had kept her living high, but she hadn’t been offered a part in a movie in eight years, since Lazy Mazy. Mazywood had never turned a profit, and it was harder to maintain each year. By now, she cherished it more for the company it drew than any financial advantages.

Sam looked crushed. “You’re turning me down?”

“Can I give you a tip, lover?” she said. “Usually, a man proposes to a woman with a ring—and there’s a chance in hell they’re in love. But the whole world knows who you’re in love with, even if you both keep denying it.”