Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📕

Anyhow, Sy offered to pay me alimony at least three times. But I wanted to show him I could be independent. And you know what? In the long run, it really was better this way.”

“Why did the marriage break up?” She was clearly not a New Yorker, because instead of giving me a socio-psycho-feminist analysis of the relationship, she clammed up. “Come on,” I urged. “I know this may seem like an invasion of your privacy, but someone’s been murdered. I need a picture of this man’s life—a complete picture.”

It took her a while, but finally she opened up. “When we met, in L.A., Sy was trying to produce his first movie. I guess I was the important one—the toast of both coasts. Okay, the semi-toast. He loved coming along for the ride. He met a lot of people. You know, contacts.

“I don’t want to make it sound as if he was using me. I think he truly thought I was…well, wonderful. And he was so smart and worldly that when he proposed I thought: Gee, if this man is in love with me, maybe I am wonderful. Anyway, pretty soon he made his first movie, and then his second. And let me tell you, Sy earned his success. He wasn’t just another rich guy who wanted to get into the movie business to date actresses or impress his friends in Cleveland.

He was a born producer.”

“What makes a born producer?”

Bonnie didn’t have to think for much more than a second; she’d done her legwork on Sy a long time ago. “He has to have a good story sense; Sy had a great one. And the ability to get people excited over

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his vision. And be a trendsetter. If everyone else was making heartwarming movies about farm families with lovable old grandpaws and alfalfa blights, Sy would make something stylized and science-fictiony because he loved the script and believed it would make a great movie.”

“So he became a big producer. What happened to you?”

“Nothing much. I stopped needing an unlisted number.”

“You’re not saying he dropped you when you stopped being a hot screenwriter?”

“Yup.”

Yup? “Where are you from?” I asked.

“Ogden, Utah. Is Moose bothering you?”

“He’s okay.”

“She. Can’t you tell? She loves men. She drops me in two seconds flat for anything in pants. She’s the town slut.” Real fast, Bonnie’s doting dog-lover smile faded. She glanced away, up at the wall clock, but she wasn’t interested in the time. I made a mental note to check on her reputation.

“How did Sy drop you?”

“How? Not too hard, considering how much he wanted out. He told me—very gently—he had been having an affair with someone. Some society lady, like his first wife, except this one didn’t look like she ate oats and neighed. Anyway, he told me he was in love with her and it was causing him enormous pain to be hurting me, but that he would appreciate a divorce so he could marry her.”

“But he didn’t marry her.”

“No, of course not. He just wanted out. He was having the affair anyway, so he used it. I guess he thought it would be easier for me if there was another woman; he knew I could accept love a lot better than him saying, ‘Hey, Bonnie, I hate taking

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you places because you’re taller than me and a has-been.”

“And you weren’t angry at this kind of treatment.”

“Of course I was angry! If you go back seven years, I bet you’d find twenty witnesses who heard me yelling: ‘I hope you die, you louse.’ But time passes. And the fact of the matter is, we wound up being friends.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I’m not sure.” But she was! Damn it, I could feel it. She lifted her chin, examined a pot holder on a hook and pretended to think. “A few days ago, I think. I dropped in on the set.”

“And before that?”

“Let’s see…Oh, about a week before. He asked me to come over, to see his house.”

“Did you stay long?”

“No. He just gave me the fifty-cent tour.”

“How good friends were you?”

“Pretty good friends.”

“Did you spend a lot of time with him?”

“Not all that much.”

“Did he visit you here?”

“He dropped by once or twice. But we were mainly phone friends. He was my colleague, my collaborator. See, I hadn’t written any screenplays for a few years, but last winter, when I gave it another shot, I sent it right off to Sy. I mean, I hadn’t seen him since the divorce, but I knew he’d give me a fair reading. And he really liked it!” She massaged her forehead.

“Oh, God almighty, I can’t believe he’s dead.”

“What about the script?”

“What? Oh, we were developing it together. It was a kind of female-buddy spy movie.”

“What exactly does ‘developing’ mean?”

“It means working on a project—the script, the 62 / SUSAN ISAACS

financing, trying to get a good director or a star involved.

But Sy never moved on a project until he was satisfied with the script. And mine—it’s called A Sea Change— wasn’t quite in shape to be sent out. But he had a lot of great suggestions.

I was rewriting based on his suggestions.”

“And then he’d produce it?”

“Yup.”

“Was he paying you a lot?”

“Well…he wasn’t actually paying me yet. But if I’d asked, he would have given me option money.”

“Why didn’t you ask?”

“I guess the same reason I didn’t want alimony. I didn’t want to seem greedy. I know, that sounds stupid. No, it is stupid. But Sy always worried that people—women—were out for what they could get from him. I didn’t want him to think that of me, either time. Anyway, I knew he’d be fair once we got rolling.”

“How do you support yourself? Family money?”

She laughed and looked around the kitchen. “Does this look like family money?”

“You live in Bridgehampton all year round?” I was really surprised.

“Sure. Oh, I see; you thought this was my sincere little summer cottage where I go to get away from my