There was a conflict, brewing like a storm in Evelyn's mind as she balanced the weight of love and Hollywood on a Libra scale. In her chartreuse Cadillac, Paul was seated beside her; lingering although they'd long arrived at their destination. His presence was there to remind her of the promise he had made on their first Christmas together.
At Peter's châteauesque cabin, the couple initially slept in separate rooms, taking it slow and whatnot. But on the Christmas gloaming, they had the living room and the fireplace to themselves. They'd talk and talk and talk; it was all they knew, it was all they wanted. Once in a while, Paul would add a log or two to feed the flame and keep the conversation going; be it of Bobby, Maurice, or Delphine—even McCarthy—he was willing to lend an ear as he did on the bus.
"I'm sorry," said Evelyn, "I got carried away with my life I forgot to ask about yours." She reached for her coffee mug on the chair's armrest, it was warm to the touch.
Paul, sitting across the woman, shook a dismissive hand. "You have lived more lives than me; everything you need to know about me has been told on the bus," he answered humbly.
Evelyn scoffed, "That can't be true."
"We talked on the phone every day. What else would you want to know?"
"Anything. Hell, you can repeat what you've said, I wouldn't mind."
Paul gave her a smile imbued with a sense of confusion. "You won't get bored?" His face was tinted in gold from the crackling fireside.
The woman shook her head, looking away from the blazing eyes. "Boredom is nothing but a word when I'm around you," she uttered.
The moment was tender and sweet, and everything she wanted it to be — it made her young again. It reminded her of a time when she and a few Kennedys would sit around a bonfire and sing carols in some ironic way. Even in the bleak midwinter, she was warm. Warm from the fire, warm from the laughter, and warm from the embrace of her soulmate. When they were left alone to decorate the Christmas tree, Bobby would decorate her face with kisses.
"Well, alright," Paul lightly said and rubbed his hands together. "Do you want to hear my wartime story?"
Evelyn nodded, she was no stranger to wartime stories; she was living in one.
"It's a gory one, you can stop me anytime you want."
She nodded again; hers was a gory one as well.
The story began with Paul thinking back to an incident during his early days in the Navy; he had witnessed his best friend sliced to pieces on an aircraft carrier by a plane's propeller. So brutal and tragic that Evelyn initially thought it was a mere tale until there was a sudden change in the atmosphere — and the man.
"Paul, that..." she leaned forward and was taken aback by his blue crystallized eyes. "Are you alright?" She sprang out of her seat to stand by him and cradled his head in her arms — worried, thoroughly worried for her beau.
Paul's tears bled through her sweater, leaving a saturated spot when he pulled away. "I'm fine, I don't know why I'm crying," he muttered through a bashful laugh.
Evelyn's hand remained on his back as it gave him more than just warmth, it was reassurance as well. The men in her life never had the courage to cry; not in Paris, not in London, and certainly not in Hyannis. But in Peter's cabin in the middle of the woods, surrounded by trees and animals, Paul was revealed to be the man she looked for all her life. All hope was not lost, after all.
"Well, now, remember..." Evelyn began to recite in a sing-song voice, "Sunshine can be found behind a cloudy sky." It was some song she'd heard from a time she couldn't remember, but it stuck with her.
It made Paul laugh, and seeing this subsequently made her laugh as well. The dim ambiance was much brighter with their smiles and laughter.
"So let your hair down..." she raked his thick hair with her thin fingers. "And go right on, baby, and cry." And his breathing slowed, matching the pace of her strokes.
"Thank you," Paul said, taking Evelyn's hand out of his hair to firmly hold it. "I was afraid you'd make fun of me."
"I would never!" Evelyn exclaimed.
"Even if it's over trivial matters?"
"How was that trivial?" She sat on the sturdy armrest beside him. "Paul, you are clearly traumatized by the event."
Trauma — the last thing a soldier needs; it emasculates him, and deprives him of his combative nature. The military's dogma is if a war makes you a nutcase, you're a big sissy since the beginning.
"Nah... it's Christmas," Paul said, "I get emotional around this time." Talk to a shrink? That's absurd, only housewives moan to them.
"It's really okay, Paul." Evelyn gazed into his eyes, searching for secrets he hadn't the guts to reveal yet. "I know I've told you a lot of things about myself, but..."
The man slitted his secretive eyes. "What is it?"
"There's something... that only my father and Bobby know."
"You can tell me, Evelyn," he insisted — insisted because he was worthy of it; insisted because he deserved to know it; insisted because Bobby Kennedy could not have the upper hand over him.
"I have a sickness," Evelyn told him vaguely.
His breath hitched for a split nervous second. "What kind of sickness...?" He prayed it wasn't incurable.
The woman fidgeted, lifting her eyes at the timbered ceiling. "I have anxiety neurosis," she explained. "When I'm anxious, extremely anxious, I panic. Sometimes for no reason at all."
There was confusion in his head, just for a moment, before Paul was hit by realization. "I've seen it," he said, sounding shocked at his own words.
"Really?" His lover hadn't met anyone with the same condition; for all she knew, she was cursed for something she did in her previous life.
"Dominic, one of the guys in the Navy." He couldn't remember what the boy looked like as it had been half a decade, but he took some of the traits from him as a war souvenir. "He freaked out about things that didn't even happen," he continued.
"He freaked out?" Evelyn laughed, but even that couldn't conceal the edge to her voice.
"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that," Paul replied with some regret. "But he panicked. Made other guys panicked as well and got himself beaten for it." He could still paint a vivid picture of Dominic's blood on the ground; dark in color, swallowed by the dirt of the earth.
The woman shook her head, but with a subtle smile as if she'd known him; as if she could say, 'Ah, that's Dom, alright.' Although she'd never met anyone by the name. "Poor guy," she sighed. "He probably didn't understand what was happening to his brain."
Paul nodded, "He really didn't."
But unlike Dominic, Evelyn knew what was happening to her brain; she got to read Freud and John B. Watson at sixteen, while he dropped out of high school to join the Navy — anything to get out of The Bronx, he thought.
"What happened to him?" Asked Evelyn.
Paul grinned, sowing hope in her. "He survived the war..." he trailed off. "But not the aftermath." It certainly wasn't ichor that the earth consumed.
So cryptic, so unnerving. She couldn't decrypt it, but nor did she want to; there were simply too many outcomes and most were bad. She was fine with not knowing.
"But I promise," Paul piped up, "I will be with you even when things get crazy." His smile inspired confidence.
Albeit the words sounded clichéd at the time, Evelyn nonetheless blushed. "That's all I want for Christmas," she sweetly replied.
"Is this Christmas like anything you'd hoped for?"
"I thought I'd be rotting away in my dorm. Thank goodness for your intervention," she quipped.
It made Paul laugh until the butterflies in his stomach behaved erratically. He wrapped his arm around Evelyn's waist and pulled her into his lap. She didn't blush or giggle, but he knew she adored him in her own way. He loved how she loved him without being told to — something he thought Bobby was incapable of doing.
"Look," said Paul, "I know I was a bit crazy when I arrived at your door, but the idea of taking it slow is growing on me."
"Is it?" Evelyn lightly asked.
"It sounded impossible, but I guess good things do come to those who wait."
"I enjoy your company as well, Mr. Newman."
If Peter and Wendy were around, they'd feign sticking a finger down their throats and puke. But it was just the two of them in that darkened room, where the domestic fire was dying. When Paul realized this, he tried to refuel the flames with a log, but Evelyn had a different idea on how to keep their bodies warm. She cupped his face firmly in her hands, taking him by some surprise — some, because he'd anticipated it — and without a word, they were locking lips. Tender was the night, warm was the kiss, and epiphanic was their love.
It had been six months since that night, things had changed. So much so that Evelyn couldn't believe she cheated on the same man. When she turned to meet Paul's loving eyes, she felt nauseous; sick of herself, sick of Evelyn Bellamy; the unfaithful woman.
"Your friends are something else," said Paul, having wool pulled over his eyes.
"You like my friends?" Evelyn absently asked.
"Eh, they're fine... I did notice they have the tendency to talk about Bobby."
It was all about him that day, and the night before, and the night before that. He was the sun of her day and the moon of her night, flooding never-ending light into her life.
"I know, I told them to cool it, but you know... women," said Evelyn, resorting to sexism in a desperate time.
"It's fine," Paul snorted through a smile.
Then Evelyn remembered he had told The Aliens about a personal project; a script for a play. He'd been working on it since last Christmas when his muse rekindled the passion through one immortal kiss.
"Hey, about the writing stuff," Evelyn began a sentence she meant to continue but Paul cut her right off.
"Oh, that. Forget it," he told her with rosy cheeks; flustered at the thought of his better half taking interest in such mediocrity.
"No, I think it's swell that you're getting into writing again."
He was pleasantly surprised by her reception. "It's just an old dream of mine..." and he was glad their relationship was mending. "I love Shakespeare, enough to be a thespian, but I realized... I want to be him."
Evelyn beamed at the opportunity to be served on a silver platter; just yesterday she was dreading at the dinner table when Joe wouldn't stop badgering her about Hollywood, now a door had been opened; one that could lead her to a guiltless fame — one with Paul. However, before she could breathe a word of it, he patted her hand and exited the car.
In the house, as she was taking her sunglasses off, Evelyn heard a burst of laughter that sounded familiar yet rarely heard echoing from the patio. "That's Joe," she told Paul.
The man looked askance in the same direction she had her eyes on. There was no word needed to prompt their feet to walk towards the source of unpleasantness.
"Evie!" Julia exclaimed once the couple came into view, overlooking Maurice and Joe almost glaring at one another.
"I hope we're not intruding?" Evelyn quipped without a smile as she approached the table.
"Not at all," Joe answered, "I'm actually here for you..." his cunning eyes observed the woman's movements; whether she understood his being there.
Maurice wordlessly rose from his seat, and when he reached his daughter, he halted. They stared quietly at one another. He stepped forward to whisper something into her ear — it shook her to her core — then he retired somewhere else. It was a swift process, but would forever change Evelyn's life.
"I'll make more tea," Julia gingerly said while lifting a tray from the table. On her way out, she'd widen her brown eyes at Paul and took him along with her.
When Evelyn sat down in Maurice's seat, Joe didn't look off to avoid awkwardness — he embraced it. He had been in board meetings; he knew when a deal was going down, and this was the deal, one that would change their lives and Hollywood for good.
"Now that everyone's left us alone, I assume this is about Hollywood?" Evelyn inquired, slipping a hand down her pocket to retrieve a cigarette pack.
"Well, we didn't get to finish our conversation yesterday. So I thought..." Joe trailed off when the woman struck a match to light her Luckies. He wasn't a smoker, but he didn't mind; it was one of the many star qualities he discovered in her.
"Have you talked to Kazan about it?"
He smiled when Evelyn was straight to the point; spoken like a true businesswoman. "I've pitched the idea to him long ago," he replied, "I just need the green light from you."
Evelyn let the cigarette rest on her lips. "I have a few conditions," she said without spitting it out.
"Name them."
"I don't care how successful this movie will be, it won't interfere with my study."
Joe frowned, but not at the condition. "What did your father whisper to you?" He boldly asked.
Evelyn swallowed. She knew he was no fool, but she did not expect him to see through her so easily. And when he leaned forward smirking, she tried to remain still. "I will go back to Harvard and finish my degree," she added sternly.
"But, Evelyn, you will be a star! College won't matter-"
"This is non-negotiable."
And Joe only smiled at this, quiet eerily. He wouldn't respond verbally, making it as though Evelyn's words held no weight in the negotiation process. "I'm privileged enough to study at the same college as you and your sons—I won't throw that away," said the woman, perhaps digging a deeper hole for herself.
Then he finally spoke up — "Even if you become a star overnight?" — with just the right words to shut her up. He enjoyed the quick fluttering of her green eyes, trembling rosé lips, and flushed cheeks. She was a cinematic act to behold; a star long in the making finally twinkling.
"You have that much hope in me?" Evelyn's tone was much quieter — more pathetic than usual — when she responded.
That was Joe's cue to bombard her with compliments she had never received before. "I do," he fervently uttered. "Perhaps you don't remember, but you used to love performing for us—songs, dances, poetry, you name it..."
The woman remembered. Every little thing. Milord was the song, ballet was the dance, and "Hope" is the thing with feathers was the poem. The Kennedys were her audience in their living room which smelled of salty summer air. A better scent than her childhood mansion; champagne and whiskey, day and night.
Joe brought his hands forward, palms open. "And while my daughters were lovely," he said, referring to his children trying to compete with her Parisian charm. "You were majestic."
It was the first time Evelyn felt her cheeks warm up around the man; it was sinful, and extremely painful to undergo. But that wasn't the end of it when Joe continued, "It must have been your upbringing that encouraged it, but you were more than just a debutante. You're a diamond, Evelyn." A diamond in a rough, that is.
The woman kept her mouth shut; no words could make the situation better. She did entertain the thought of Joe meeting Delphine — Evelyn would've been neglected — how she shuddered at the thought of the duo working together.
"But I respect you," said Joe, "so I accept."
Evelyn looked askance at him. Respect is a funny thing; it covers a multitude of sins, and if it has levels, she would be at the bottom of Joe's ranks.
"What else?" He asked.
"Paul," she quickly answered. "You have to give something to him."
He reclined into his chair, putting his thinking cap on. "You know I tried— unprompted, even. But he rejected it."
"That's because he doesn't want to be an actor; he's a thespian artist."
"Well, Marlon Brando—your costar—started in theater..." Joe trailed off, aware that Evelyn caught on to his psychological trick when she narrowed her eyes. "But he's wise enough to know that it's dying. Tell Paul that the silver screen is all the rage now."
Evelyn shook her head, vexed by his lousy manner. "Look, he doesn't want anything that has to do with his face. He wants to be a playwright; a screenwriter. Anything with writing involved," she explained.
A look of confusion crossed Joe's face before he quickly recovered. "Has he anything I can read?" He was all about business that day; nothing was going to stop him from shaking hands with Evelyn.
"He's just starting," the starlet said. "But if it's any good, you have to promise you'll help him."
"It's much harder to get studios to buy a script than an actor, you know that?" Joe kissed his teeth; it wasn't Paul he'd spent decades with.
"That's my condition," answered Evelyn, aware she had the upper hand now, "If you have problems with it, you can kiss the money goodbye."
Even in frustration, Joe had to admire her unflinching words and foolproof plan. "I didn't say it'd be a problem," he said. "I'll make sure your conditions are met." With a thirty percent cut.
Evelyn smiled at his pretentious words, blowing cigarette smoke his way — fitting, as the deal was nothing but smoke and mirrors.
"Alright..." the old man rose. "Partners?" And lent a hand that had shaken a thousand hands to change the world, for better or worse.
Evelyn eyed him up and down, then reluctantly followed suit by standing up. "For now," she uttered frigidly. When her hand was wrapped in Joe's cold-blooded one, she couldn't deny the feeling she had made a pact with the Devil.
He gave a cunning smile to her. "I shall tell Elia the good news." When she tried to pull her hand away, he tightened his grip to assert dominance. The trick was well known, thus the woman stubbornly stood her ground with a vacant look over her features.
"Tea?" A disembodied voice inquired, causing Joe to finally release his domineering grip. He wouldn't want Julia to change her mind all of a sudden; she was the strongest backer of this deal.
"I'm good, Julia. I have to go," the man said, pushing his chair into the table.
"Oh, of course." Julia wasn't worried; she saw the handshake. And a smile that couldn't be mistaken for a failed negotiation — they had a deal.
When Evelyn entered the living room — walking past her mother and the tea — looking for Paul, she did not expect to find her father. He was brooding. There was a book in his hand, but he wasn't reading; he only looked at the words, without perceiving them.
"Are you going to Hollywood?" He asked, not perceiving Evelyn.
She nodded, "Yes."
He sighed loudly to express his displeasure. "What about Paul?"
"He's coming, too."
Then he set the unread book on his lap. "Did he say that or are you assuming?"
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
He wanted to tell her she was making a huge mistake, like he always did, but it was only a one-time thing; a small project that would finish in a month or two, not a blockbuster. It was a deal but not a big one. Who would care about a play being made into a film with young whippersnappers? It would flop! Evelyn Bellamy's first film would flop and be her last; she would realize that Hollywood wasn't the place for a girl like her. These thoughts put Maurice at ease; when his daughter returned, she'd seen the horrid things Hollywood has to offer and puke her gut out — Quoth the Woman, "Nevermore."
"He's upstairs," Maurice said, returning to his book and using the object to conceal his smirk.
"Thanks." Evelyn lingered for another second before heading upstairs, oddly impatient to tell Paul the good news.
In her bedroom, she found him in the same position as her father; sitting with one leg over the other knee; forming a figure four, and a book from her bookshelf in his hands.
Paul stood when he saw her. "What did he want?" He asked in a tone that concealed his curiosity.
Evelyn sighed while approaching him. "My green light," she explained.
He pressed his lips together, remembering she never did give Joe an answer. "Did you give it?"
His lover merely nodded. In her eyes, he could see she was conflicted. As she always was. She had had that look in them since they met on that Christmas Eve. Back then it was Bobby, now it was Hollywood — or was it still Bobby?
Paul weakly smiled. "Good. It's your dream, baby."
Evelyn understood what he said — she knew him better than himself — but she wondered if he had meant to say, "It's your dream, not mine."
"You're doing the right thing..." he laid his hands on her shoulders that would soon be on display for thousands, if not millions, of Americans to see.
This was where Evelyn decided to break the news that her soul wasn't the only one sold. "I got something for you too," she said.
Paul jerked his head back. "Evelyn..." he said in a drawn-out tone.
"I told him about your writing."
He let go of her shoulders. "You shouldn't have... I have nothing yet."
"He wants to help...!" Evelyn reassuringly said, grabbing him by the arm when he tried to walk away. "I want you there with me."
They shared a look of mixed feelings. Paul knew Evelyn wasn't sure of what she wanted either, but she was putting on a brave face and Hollywood smile to keep her future bright. And she knew he wanted this — possibly more than she did — but was too embarrassed to say it. He should thank her sooner than later.
"Darling, I'll be there for you no matter what," uttered Paul, his soulful eyes piercing through Evelyn. It was a sincere look of love, and she knew this for she'd only seen it once her whole life — when Bobby was at the altar.
The woman leaned forward, waiting for her beau to slightly lower his head and kiss her where it mattered most. And when he did, his lips were softer than rose petals, warmer than the sunlight on her skin, and it made her forget about what had happened on the roof last night.
"Well..." Paul sighed upon breaking the kiss, "Looks like we're spending the rest of the summer in LA."
Evelyn nodded with her eyes darted at the blue ocean outside the windows. "Looks like it." She sat on her bed, knowing she'd miss the quintessences of Hyannis Port.
Paul finally sat beside her just before she could shift her gaze to the Kennedy house. However, it did not stop her from reminiscing about Ted's barbecue party. "Did I tell you about the time I met Alfred Hitchcock?" She asked Paul. It seemed like he knew everything there was to know about her, so she had to inquire.
"You're kidding!" Paul exclaimed. "Where?"
Evelyn admired his relentless efforts at making her smile. "Right next door," she fondly answered.
The couple would spend the rest of their day and week together, without interruption from anyone, not even Bobby. While this was necessary for them, it was painful for the other man; he was left wondering if what had happened that night was merely a drunken liaison or a rekindling of their forgotten love. When Evelyn wouldn't see him or answer his calls, he began to lean into the former. And when his father informed him of her decision to leave for Hollywood, he slowly understood what he was to her... a fling — a hometown fling.
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PS: Alright, so, Evelyn is leaving for Hollywood, but since this isn't 1953 (aka present time) it won't be a big deal at all. It's just a little idea I have on how to add A Streetcar Named Desire (I love that movie) into the book. I'll be going through her summer in Hollywood in one or two chapters, not too detailed or expansive, so we will be seeing a lot more Bobby, don't worry about it. Anyhoo, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!