Most of all, Ruby loved talking to Niccolò and sharing their plans for the future. And then, when the cameras were rolling, it was magical to think that they were being captured on film that would someday be shown around the world.
“Ready on the set,” the assistant director called out. “This take is to confirm the route the Vespa will take.”
Mr. Wyler called out, “Action.”
Niccolò and Ruby bent their heads together, murmuring silly things to look like they were having a real conversation over coffee.
Ruby heard the whine of the Vespa behind them. They weren’t to look at it until it reached them, and then they were to leap from their chairs. Some extras would be shocked, while others would yell or gesture. Ruby thought it would be so much fun to ride the scooter around the city like Princess Ann in the story, played by Audrey, was supposed to do. Only she’d want Niccolò with her.
Niccolò had positioned himself across from her instead of beside her. He looked up from under his dark eyebrows.
“Don’t look into the camera,” Ruby whispered. “Act natural.”
At once, the whirring engine noise was upon them. The Vespa, driven by a stuntman, accelerated and jumped the curb.
Niccolò’s eyes grew large, and his lips parted in shock. Before Ruby could say a word, he’d leapt across the table and pulled her toward him. They tumbled onto the ground, where they landed in a heap.
Screams erupted behind them as the scooter slid out of control. “Watch out,” people yelled, diving out of the way of the careening scooter.
Ruby glanced back. The chair she’d been sitting in was on its side. One leg was broken.
“Oh, my stars,” she said shakily.
Niccolò held her in his arms. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so.” Other extras helped her to her feet and brushed dirt from her skirt and blouse.
Mr. Wyler hurried to her. “How are you, my dear?”
“Just shaken,” Ruby said to the director. Mr. Wyler had never spoken directly to her before.
He took her hand and held it. “If you need a doctor, I can call one.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Inclining his head, he said, “You’re playing the part of an American reporter, aren’t you?”
Ruby was impressed that with all the people on the set, the director knew her little part. “Yes, sir. And I’m so excited to be here.”
“Where are you from, miss…?”
“Ruby. Ruby Raines,” she replied, offering her hand. “I’m from Texas.”
Shaking her hand, Mr. Wyler seemed to take in every feature on her face as if cataloging her for future reference. “I can hear a slight accent in your voice now. And you’re quite tall. Very interesting.”
Ruby gave him a gracious smile. She’d been trading elocution lessons for horseback riding lessons with a fine, top-drawer lady from Connecticut who’d married one of their neighbors a couple of ranches over. Carol Clarkson had been afraid of horses but was determined to learn to ride, while Ruby had nearly swooned at the woman’s elegant manner of speaking. All rounded vowels and full endings on words, just like a movie star.
And it’s paying off, Ruby thought, thrilled to be speaking with Mr. Wyler, the director of Mrs. Miniver and The Best Years of Our Lives, some of her favorite dramas.
Mr. Wyler’s gaze fell on Niccolò. “This young man certainly acted quickly on your behalf. What’s your name, son?”
Niccolò introduced himself, and the director nodded. “You play the part of the ice cream vendor.”
“That’s right.” Niccolò beamed.
“Quick reactions. I appreciate that. But we’ll make sure this won’t happen again.” Mr. Wyler paused. “Miss Raines, do you want to sit out this scene?”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Like my mother always says, ‘chin up, on we go.’”
Mr. Wyler chuckled. “Chin up. I like that.” He motioned to the prop master, and then he turned to the crowd. “We’ll take a ten-minute break while we inspect the scooter and set up the scene again—safely, to be sure.”
As the director left to tend to business, Ruby gazed after him in awe. Many actors loved to work with him, and she could understand why. He seemed to bring out the best in people. Whispers were already circulating that Audrey Hepburn would be a star after this film, and she might even win an Academy Award.
Ruby sighed. She could hardly imagine how exciting a life like that would be. Why, an actress like that would have her pick of any fella—fellow, she thought, mentally correcting herself. Not just the rancher her father had picked out for her. Oh, Granger Johnston was all right. He could break a horse like nobody’s business, and he was a church-going man, but Ruby wanted more. She wanted all of this. Exploring the world, meeting new people, wearing fancy costumes—but most of all, she yearned to breathe life into characters and whisk people away with a story. Folks needed that.
Niccolò caught her hand. “Mr. Wyler liked you.”
She felt her cheeks color. “He liked you, too.”
“Maybe he’ll use both of us in his next film. He sure knows who you are now.” Niccolò held his thumb and pinkie to his ear like a telephone receiver and spoke in a girlish voice. “Hello, Mr. Wyler? It’s me, Ruby, the girl who almost got run over by a Vespa on your set in Rome.”
Ruby playfully punched his arm. “Cut it out. He might see you.”
Laughing, Niccolò pecked her on the cheek. “I hope so. I do a lot of imitations, too.”
“A man of so many talents. Let’s see,” she said, placing a finger to her temple. “Clairvoyant—”
“And aren’t you glad?” he said, adopting a Cary Grant demeanor.
“Does a dreadful Italian Cary Grant impression.”
“Aww.” He clapped a hand over his heart as if wounded.
“Can you at least cook?”
A slow grin spread across his face. “Ah, sì, sì.”
“Then prove it,” she teased.
“This Friday. You’ll come for supper.”
“To your place? I don’t know…” Though she thought she could trust Niccolò, her mother had specially told her not to be alone with any man. They didn’t have the money for her mother to chaperone her in Italy as Audrey’s mother had. As I should have, her mother had said. You have to behave yourself.
“I shouldn’t,” Ruby said regretfully.
“No, no, no, no,” Niccolò said, instantly understanding her hesitation.” I live with my parents. How old do you think I am?”
Ruby nearly burst out laughing. “How old do you think I am?”
Niccolò lowered his voice. “Just between us, I’m seventeen, but everyone says, ‘Niccolò, you look much older,’ so I tell them what they want to hear. Capisci?” He waggled his eyebrows. “But, I’ll be eighteen next week.”
As if locking in his secret, Ruby twisted her fingers at her lips, though she took care not to damage her lipstick. “I always liked older boys,” she said softly. She cupped a hand to his ear and whispered.