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

we wound up talking about my brother Jim’s wife, who Sy had always had a little crush on, and about his Uncle Charlie’s bypass surgery, and about all the movies he wanted to make after Starry Night.”

Talk about stars. The night was so clear that the stars were not cold, distant lights but twinkling points of warmth: Hi!

Welcome! Nice universe we’ve got here!

Bonnie went on: “When Sy saw the pitchers on the mantel, he reminisced about the trip we’d taken to Maine, where we bought a couple of them. It was so nice—a shared memory.

What else? He said my script looked like hell and he couldn’t believe I was still using a typewriter, and he picked up the phone and called his assistant and had him order a computer and printer for me.” I made a mental note to ask Easton about that. “Let’s see. He brought me flowers. So I guess you’re wondering, was I had for an IBM-compatible and a bunch of day lilies? Partly. Sy swoops into your life, takes over everything. Let me tell you, it’s very seductive, having someone come and care for you: buy you electronic toys, brush your hair, ask you how your day was. So that was part of it. And the other part was, I slept with him because I was so

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unloved. I couldn’t stand it anymore.” Before I could say anything, she added: “And don’t ask if I really think he loved me, because we both know what the answer to that one is.”

“Why you? Look, I’m not putting you down, but he was living with Lindsay Keefe.”

“I’m sexier than Lindsay Keefe.” She wasn’t being falsely immodest. She was being matter-of-fact. She meant it. Then she stretched out her legs and got busy doing toe touches again. She couldn’t sit still; she had too much energy. I wondered how she sat for two hours to see a movie. It was such a dark, sedentary passion for someone who seemed all daylight and outdoors. “It wasn’t just sex for Sy,” she was explaining. “He was screwing me literally to screw Lindsay figuratively. He was always so much happier when he was cheating. Somehow, his women always suspected, and he liked their scrambling to hold on to him. He liked their anguish too. And he loved the logistics of sneaking around. But with Lindsay, it was more than his usual infidelity. He was furious at her.”

“Why? Because she wasn’t good in the movie?”

“Because she wasn’t good—and she wasn’t trying. See, Sy had his own money, the bank’s money and some of his friends’ money invested. It was a real risk. He knew this kind of sophisticated adventure-romance doesn’t do fabulous business unless there’s something very special about it. But he felt he had that in the Starry Night script. For all Sy’s ba-loney, he truly believed in what he did.”

I remembered that Germy had liked the screenplay. “Did you read it?”

“Yes. It was terrific. But Sy needed box office clout and ecstatic reviews: ‘An American classic! See it!’ And Lindsay Keefe was his ticket. She’s a star Men, especially, love her.

But more important, she’s made

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quality movies. The critics take her seriously. Also, Sy knew that with the wrong stars, actors with a limited emotional range, Starry Night would be just another one of those 1950s Eastman Color-style rich-adventurers-on-the-Riviera movies, except set in the Hamptons and New York. But with actors who could show innocence, sweetness, under elegance, who could really deliver lines—because the dialogue is so good—he’d have a major commercial and critical hit. He was on his way; from what he said, Nick Monteleone was born to play this role. He was debonair without being too Cary Grant; he was manly, exciting. But Lindsay just ruined it. She walked through the part as though it was beneath her, and that was showing contempt for Sy’s judgment, and for Sy. You didn’t do that to him, not if you had any brains.

It was a major no-no.”

“Why didn’t he kick her out of his house? Fire her?”

“Well, he wasn’t going to fire her until he had a replacement, which was going to be terribly expensive. Lindsay had a pay-or-play contract: she got paid in full whether she made the movie or not. But he was looking for someone else.

That’s why he was going to L.A. As far as kicking her out of his house, he was first and foremost a smart operator. If for any reason he couldn’t make a deal with another actress, he’d be stuck with Lindsay, and while she was living with him and having sex with him and getting little ten-thousand-dollar trinkets from him, she’d at least be semi-manageable.

If he gave her the heave-ho, she’d be blatantly hostile.”

“Do you think Lindsay knew Sy was seeing you?”

“Me specifically? No. Seeing someone? Definitely. Not that Sy told me, but he’d call her trailer from my house; they have those portable phones. She’d come to the phone and obviously ask where he was, and he’d take a long beat and then say, ‘Oh, I’m, uh, hav-MAGIC HOUR / 295

ing lunch with an old friend from college, uh, Bob, just ran into him. We’re at this little hole-in-the-wall.’ And she asked him where, and he took another beat and said, ‘Uh, uh, Water Mill.’ He was lying but letting her know he was lying.”

“Did you get any sense from Sy that Lindsay might have someone on the side?” Bonnie smiled and shook her head, as if the possibility was too ridiculous to even consider. “Why not? Was he that terrific in the sack that she wouldn’t want anyone else?” I confess: this was not strictly a police question.

I wanted to know.

Maybe she knew I wanted to know. But she didn’t want to tell me. “That’s really not relevant.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve got to know everything about him. I’ve got to know how he behaved toward people, toward women.

It’s important