The Legacy Read Free Page B

enthusiasm, “Daddy’s not fit. He had a heart attack ten years ago. He did that crazy thing only because one of the men threatened my mother. You would have to know daddy to understand that.”
    â€œI always wanted to meet him — and you too, of course. But I’ve also read everything you’ve written. I mean your books. And when you went to prison, I was enraged, if that means anything, and I wrote an editorial about it which they didn’t print even though I threatened to resign, which I didn’t have enough guts to do, and I know about your husband, who must have been a damned wonderful man —” He broke off and glanced at her. Barbara sat rigid, silent, and for the next few minutes, she said nothing; and then, at last, Devron said almost woefully, “My full name is Kit Carson Devron. You might as well know. I feel ridiculous and I might as well complete the picture.”
    â€œI think you’re rather nice,” Barbara said after a long moment.
    *
    That had been three months ago. Now, in a raincoat over blue jeans and a sweater, Barbara stood at the entrance to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, waiting for Carson Devron. She had been there only a few minutes when he pulled up in his convertible. The car was not an affectation; he was indifferent to what he drove, and one car was as good as another, so long as it moved. Barbara darted ahead of the doorman’s umbrella and through the open car door, and then huddled comfortably in the seat as Devron turned westward and then down Wilshire toward the beach.
    â€œHow did I save you?” he wanted to know. “And why?”
    â€œI wanted to kill someone. I thought of myself, but I’m not up to suicide yet. Then I considered my producer. That becomes difficult, because the only other Goldberg I ever knew was Sam Goldberg, who was my dear friend and lawyer and we named my son after him. I might kill our director. That would be pleasant. I’m just talking. I can’t kill a fly when push comes to shove. Just bloodthirsty thoughts.”
    â€œDo you want to talk about it?”
    â€œYes. I’m not the type who suffers in silence. I’ve just been informed by my producer that they’re scrapping the screenplay that I wrote and rewrote according to the suggestions of every incompetent idiot who read it. They’re throwing it out and giving the job to another writer — my book, my life.”
    â€œCan they do that?”
    â€œThey can. When they buy a book, they own it. They can do what they please. Oh, perhaps I could have had it differently if I had known. But I thought it was so wonderful of them, so brave to do a book by a writer who had been blacklisted, that I never questioned the contract. Anyway, there are some silver linings. I’m through with Los Angeles.”
    â€œThat’s a hell of a silver lining. Look there,” Devron said, pointing westward to where the clouds were breaking up, golden shafts of sunlight burning through. “That’s the real thing. This place can be very beautiful if you’d forget about the lousy film business. Anyway, it’s not for you. It’s not for people.”
    They parked the car and walked along Santa Monica Beach. After the rain, the vast stretch of the beach was empty except for the swooping, screaming gulls. Over the headlands to the north, there was still a black thunderhead, shredding and shot through with fronds of sunlight. The beach sand was wet and firm under their feet.
    â€œWhat we have here,” Devron said, “is too large, too beautiful, and too mucked up for anyone to take it casually. That’s why it manages to be hated so fiercely. In New York, they make a religion out of hating the place.”
    â€œI’ve felt that. Even in the north, you feel it.”
    â€œI was born here. Doesn’t that give it some tiny virtue in your eyes?”
    â€œI don’t believe you. Carson, you’re a