Reel (Hollywood Renaissance #1) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,29
to grab another box from the floor, and I can’t see his expression, but his voice sounds sure. Then again, when doesn’t Canon sound sure?
“Look at this,” he says.
Dust stirs from the jewelry box when he opens it, and a ballet dancer pops up. An old tune warbles from the box, so faint it’s barely music, and the figurine executes a turn, her pirouette shaky and uneven. Canon picks through a few pieces of jewelry—a black velvet ribbon choker, a cocktail ring shaped like a star and studded with rubies, diamond-flecked hairpins. There is a small tear in the floor of the box. I pull the base up, revealing a hidden compartment.
“Look at you, finding the secrets,” Canon says, lifting the base out completely and extracting a stack of papers, frayed and falling apart. He spreads them on the bed between us. There isn’t much, but you don’t hide things that mean nothing.
I angle my head to study the newspaper clipping of a wedding announcement.
* * *
Harlem nightclub owner Hezekiah Moore weds Matilda Hargrove. The ceremony took place at Abyssinian Baptist Church, with reception following at the Hotel Theresa.
* * *
Beneath the photo of a stern, stout man and a gorgeous woman of medium brown complexion wearing a waxen smile with her wedding dress are the words I had to. Forgive me. in neat handwriting.
Canon and I exchange a quick look of speculation.
“Matilda was Dessi’s roommate in New York for a few years,” he says. “The scene you did with Mallory showed how they met. Katherine said when Dessi left to tour in Europe, they lost touch completely.”
I flip through a stack of letters, all written in the same neat handwriting from the newspaper clipping. “Looks like she was wrong about them losing touch.”
The edge of a faded maroon paper peeks out from beneath the newspaper clipping so I pull it out to see it fully. It’s a playbill for Macbeth, but obviously an adaptation that, based on the graphic, seems to have African or island influence.
“Says the play was presented by the Negro unit of the Federal Theatre Project.” I flip the playbill over, scanning the details. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Yeah. In the scene you read, that’s the show they were waiting to see. The Federal Theatre Project was a New Deal stimulus program that funded plays and live performances.”
“New Deal as in FDR’s New Deal?”
“Yeah. After the Great Depression. It put actors, playwrights and directors to work.
Orson Welles adapted Macbeth with an all-Black cast at the Lafayette Theatre in the thirties. Maybe ’36? They called it Voodoo Macbeth.”
“The Orson Welles?”
“Yeah, and he was only twenty years old at the time. Wasn’t even really making movies yet.” Canon shakes his head. “Genius man.”
I open the playbill and there’s a newspaper clipping inside showing a huge crowd outside the Lafayette. “Says here people lined up for ten blocks on Seventh Avenue. Over ten thousand people trying to get into the theater, and only twelve hundred seats.”
Canon leans closer to read for himself, and the clean scent of him invades my senses. I try to stay focused on the work, on what this opportunity means for my career, and not think about how drawn I am to him, but sometimes . . . like now times, when he smells so good, and his body radiates warmth, I just want to . . .
Stop it, Neevah.
He tilts his head to read the fine print beneath the photo, and his head bumps mine.
“Sorry,” he says, glancing up from the pile of faded memorabilia. Our eyes hold, and I hope mine don’t tell him everything; don’t tell him that I’m fighting this most ridiculous, inappropriate, ill-fated attraction every time I’m around him. And I am fighting it. I know it’s wrong and will only make this job harder.
His eyes search mine and drop to my mouth, and I feel his gaze like a hot, tender touch. My lips part on a caught breath, and I have to lick them. I have to stop before I make this weird and uncomfortable for him. He’s my boss.
I let the playbill fall from my fingers to the floor, seizing the excuse to bend, to break the hot connection between our eyes. It’s hot to me. I’m burning up, but when I sit up, Canon’s eyes are cool, his expression inscrutable. I want to apologize for disrupting the easy rapport between us, but I didn’t do anything. It just happened. My body inconveniently reminded me that Canon