CHAPTER 1
1938 CALIFORNIA
When Kate Hildebrand had pictured stepping off the train in Hollywood, she’d imagined palm trees and sunshine, not this inky-black night and strange, warm wind. A loose sign banged in the restless air and leaves rustled.
She stood in the shaft of light spilling from the train, her heart thumping harder than it should have, wishing she’d taken an earlier train to arrive in daylight.
Kate hated the dark.
Behind her, the Santa Fe Super Chief screamed a warning whistle and chugged into motion, moving on to San Diego. In front of her, the other teenaged girl who’d disembarked was greeted by a large family, everyone hugging and talking at once, and the man who’d dozed most of the day dropped his suitcase to embrace a woman holding a baby. Farther away, a cluster of men in suits and hats shook hands.
No one approached Kate.
She lifted her chin to see better below the brim of her stylish blue fedora, but didn’t find her grandfather.
Not that his face was all that familiar to her.
He’d come to San Francisco for Thanksgiving when Kate was eight—an attempt at reconciliation with her mother that hadn’t gone so well—and he’d returned for her mother’s funeral a few years after that, but Kate hadn’t seen him because she hadn’t attended. Since then, there’d been a few birthday cards and awkward phone calls, but Kate knew more about her grandfather from movie magazines than memories, and those magazines were a decade old, from his heyday in the 1920s.
No one had written about silent film star Oliver Banks in a very long time.
The station wasn’t as grand as she’d expected, just a wide stretch of concrete with a stucco building and two lanterns casting more shadow than light. No movie stars arriving to swarms of fans, like she’d seen in magazines. But then, this wasn’t actually Hollywood, just the neighboring town where her grandfather lived—Pasadena.
The other travelers drifted into the dark, taking their cheerful voices with them, leaving Kate alone with her luggage—two enormous trunks, a small suitcase, a cosmetic case, and three hat boxes. Her entire life packed into a few square feet of space.
“He’s expecting you,” Aunt Lorna had insisted yesterday as she’d packed for her own trip in another direction—which for Aunt Lorna meant tossing clothes on the bed for their housekeeper Hattie to pack. “I sent a telegram and it’s all set. I hope you’ve finished packing.”
“You know I have.” Lists written. Tasks crossed off. Everything Kate owned neatly folded and organized, her telescope tucked between sweaters.
“Which outfit for boarding the ship?” Aunt Lorna had asked. “Something pretty?” She’d held up an apricot-colored dress. “Or the expected nautical?” In her other hand, she’d held up navy with gold buttons.
“Nautical,” Kate had advised without much thought because Aunt Lorna looked chic in everything. She had the same lean figure as all the Hildebrands—including Kate—and the same red hair, cut chin length, carefully curled and tucked into place. Aunt Lorna’s shade was bright copper, helped by a bottle; Kate’s, auburn.
Aunt Lorna had held up a fox stole, the engagement ring on her left hand sparkling like a block of ice. “What does one wear in South America, do you think?”
“Safari hats, I should guess.”
“How ghastly.”
Kate had dropped to the sofa under the window, stretching out her long legs. “What if I despise Hollywood?”
“Oh, darling, how could you possibly despise Hollywood? All those movie stars and pool parties.”
“I doubt my grandfather dines with Cary Grant. His friends will all be ancient.” She’d hesitated before asking, “Can I come back if I hate it?”
Aunt Lorna had given her a sideways look. “You’ve burned that bridge, I’m afraid.” Two weeks ago, her fiancé had found Kate’s list of Seven Reasons for Not Marrying Mr. Norton, and his requirement that Kate not live with them after the wedding had become nonnegotiable. “Besides,” Aunt Lorna said in a gentler tone. “You don’t want to live with him any more than he wants to live with you.”
No, Kate didn’t want to live with Mr. Norton, who insisted on eating in silence to aid his digestion. But she didn’t want to leave home either. “I’m the first girl to ever be president of the astronomy club, and I’m leaving before I even get started. I’m going to miss the yacht club dance next week. And Meg’s birthday party. I just wish you’d waited until I was done with high school to get married.”
“Sadly, wishes don’t pay the butcher.”
“Or the housekeeper,” Hattie muttered, stuffing newspaper into the toes of glittering party shoes.
Uncle Harvey had died two years ago, but Aunt Lorna had never seemed to grasp the concept that continuing to spend lavishly without an income led to an empty bank account. She owed every dress shop in town, and poor Hattie hadn’t been paid in months. Mr. Norton and his gold-mining fortune had come along just in time. They would be married by the ship’s captain, and then spend a month in South America inspecting Mr. Norton’s gold mines—his idea of a romantic honeymoon—before returning to Aunt Lorna’s house in San Francisco. While they were away, the house would be gutted and remodeled, Kate’s bedroom turned into an office for Mr. Norton.
“Hattie, I want all the jewelry in my cosmetic case so I can keep it close on the ship,” Aunt Lorna said, holding up a strand of pearls. “And don’t forget about the movers tomorrow, putting everything in storage while the house is remodeled. And Kate’s car—”
“Yes, ma’am, picked up by the new owners.” Tactful Hattie. She knew Kate’s car was being repossessed by the bank—one debt Mr. Norton refused to pay.
Her darling little roadster gone. Her bedroom demolished. Even Aunt Lorna—the closest thing she’d had to a mother in four years—sailing away after a quick kiss at the train station that morning.
This was Kate’s new life.
And no one to greet her.
She left her luggage on the platform and entered the small station, which was deserted except for an elderly man behind the counter. “If you’re going to San Diego, you missed it.”
“I just arrived. I was expecting someone to pick me up.”
The man pointed to a pay phone in the corner.
Kate slid a coin into the slot, waited for the operator to pick up, and then said, “Oliver Banks in Pasadena.”
“One moment, please.”
The ticket agent looked at her more closely after hearing the name. Kate turned away, tugging at the brim of her hat.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have a listing.”
“Can we try the address?” Kate reached into her purse for the worn envelope from an old birthday card she’d thought to grab as she was packing, and read aloud, “Thirteen fifty Starlight Circle.”
“One moment, please.” The line crackled with static. “I’m sorry, but I don’t show an active line at that address.”
An uneasy feeling crept through her. How could her grandfather not have a phone? “Are you sure?” She repeated the address.
“No active line, I’m sorry.”