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  All for a Sister

  Copyright © 2014 by Allison Pittman. All rights reserved.

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  Back cover photograph of flowers copyright © Irina Mosina/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Ron Kaufmann

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  Published in association with William K. Jensen Literary Agency, 119 Bampton Court, Eugene, Oregon 97404.

  Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  All for a Sister is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pittman, Allison.

  All for a sister / Allison Pittman.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-4143-6682-1 (sc)

  1. Heirs—History—20th century—Fiction. 2. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. 3. Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.I885A77 2014

  813'.6—dc23 2014005565

  ISBN 978-1-4143-9608-8 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8466-5 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-9609-5 (Apple)

  Build: 2014-05-19 11:55:14

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: Celeste, age 20

  Chapter 2: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 1–12

  Chapter 3: Dana visits the offices of Rolling Arts Entertainment

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5: Celeste, age 5

  Chapter 6: Dana goes for a drive and learns to hold on to her hat

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8: Celeste, age 6

  Chapter 9: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 13–24

  Chapter 10: Dana goes to Warner Brothers

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 25–38

  Chapter 13: Celeste, age 9

  Chapter 14: Dana sees stars

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 39–53

  Chapter 17: Celeste, age 10

  Chapter 18: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 67–79

  Chapter 19: Dana plays hostess on the patio

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 54–58 and 80–85

  Chapter 22: Celeste, age (nearly) 13

  Chapter 23: Dana goes to the beach

  Chapter 24: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 86–91

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26: Celeste, age 14

  Chapter 27: Dana visits the law offices of Christopher Parker, Esq.

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 92–102

  Chapter 30: Celeste, age 20

  Chapter 31: The written confession of Marguerite DuFrane, pages 59–66

  Chapter 32: Dana finds a family

  A Note from the Author

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  I cannot say enough about the fabulous people at Tyndale, who continue to let me follow the story trails wherever they lead. Nor can I ever express how grateful I am for my agent, Bill Jensen, a font of wisdom in all questions great and small.

  Thank you, family—Mikey and the boys—for being so supportive and, more important, self-sufficient!

  And here you are . . . my Monday Night Group and the PITT crew . . . reading first words for the first time. It’s only because of your amazing love and support that I finally felt strong enough to go this one “alone.” But not alone, really. Because above all else I must honor my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit who sustains me.

  LORD, you alone are my inheritance, my cup of blessing.

  You guard all that is mine.

  The land you have given me is a pleasant land.

  What a wonderful inheritance!

  PSALM 16:5-6 (NLT)

  CELESTE, AGE 20

  LOS ANGELES

  1925

  CELESTE WALKED BACKWARD through the house, a lifetime of poise and confidence in every step.

  “Perhaps something here? On the stairs?” She ascended four steps, then turned, striking a dramatic pose along the banister, one leg stretched provocatively from her fringed skirt.

  “That’s a nice one, Miss DuFrane.” The photographer, Jimmy from Photoplay, seemed more indulging than enthusiastic. “But I think we’re looking for something to bring out more of the ingenue, you know what I’m sayin’? A little more starlet, little less ‘Jazz Baby.’”

  Celeste frowned—really more of a pout, and really rather pretty. “I don’t want to come across as another Mary Pickford.”

  “Well, you ain’t no Clara Bow, neither. Why don’t we think about goin’ outside? Some fresh-face-in-the-garden action?”

  She dropped her pose and clomped down the stairs. “Is that what Mr. Lundi requested?” Indeed, it sounded exactly like something Roland Lundi would say.

  Jimmy pushed his hat back, revealing a rapidly receding hairline. “Look, he’s your agent. I just got the memo. ‘Meet the untold story of Celeste DuFrane.’ Already sounds like a headline, don’t it?”

  It did, but not one she relished. There was a reason the story hadn’t been told—not even to her. Besides, it wasn’t Celeste’s untold story; it was her mother’s, kept in the shadows until the reading of her will. Celeste’s story was simple: a beautiful little girl wants to be a movie star . . . and she is. No rise from poverty, no brave tale of immigration, no miraculous discovery in a mundane talent show.

  “Follow me, then.” She brushed past Jimmy and walked with a measured, swaying step, leading the way through the kitchen, where Graciela’s warm, welcoming face looked up from the ever-growing pile of colorful sliced vegetables on the counter.

  “Will your guest be joining us for lunch, Miss Celeste?” She spoke with an exaggerated deferential tone, her accent almost comically pronounced, the way she did when she meant to play the maid.

  “Él no es un invitado,” Celeste said, her Spanish as perfect as Graciela’s English. She grabbed a slice of sweet red pepper and bit into its crispness without ever breaking her stride, continuing toward the double French doors leading to the patio, where she stopped short and allowed Jimmy to be a gentleman.

  “That part of the mystery?” he said, holding the door wide. “Are you the maid’s secret daughter?”

  “You got me.” Her voice dripped with uncharacteristic sarcasm, but it built up the wall Roland told her to build. She wasn’t to say a word u
ntil he arrived. With the mystery woman.

  Jimmy took the hint and said nothing more until they were standing in the middle of the garden, surrounded by Graciela’s perfectly tended roses, their feet resting on the pink cobblestones that intersected the velvet-green grass. It was a day that carried the ocean on the breeze, and Celeste lifted her face to it, breathing deep.

  “Aw, that’s beautiful,” Jimmy said on cue. She knew her blonde hair, freshly styled, shone in the sunlight, and when she closed her eyes, her carefully applied makeup was its own work of art.

  Soon enough, Celeste heard the sound of the shutter, and she opened her eyes.

  “Look, you’re a beautiful girl, but I’m not seein’ a story, you know what I mean?”

  “How can you say that?”

  “California princess. You wanted your own house. You got your own house. You wanted to be in the movies. You’re in the movies. Maybe if you were a star—”

  “I have a film premiere next week.”

  “You the star?”

  “Third lead.”

  He touched the rim of his rumpled hat in mock salute. “Have Lundi give me a call when you’re playing Chaplin’s lover, and we’ll talk. Meanwhile—” he hoisted up his camera—“if this turns out any good, maybe I’ll put something together about our California girls. Homegrown, not like the Swede I’m shooting later.”

  Celeste worked her face into a smile and balled her fist as if that could keep Photoplay from slipping through her fingers. “I understand.”

  Rather than leading him back through the house, Celeste pointed Jimmy toward the side gate, where the sad-looking jalopy she’d spotted upon greeting him waited at the edge of the drive to take him away.

  Back in the kitchen, Graciela was arranging a platter with slices from a fresh-baked chicken. She glanced up, then looked around expectantly.

  “He left,” Celeste said, leaning against the counter and picking at the carcass with delicate fingers. “He said there wasn’t a story.”

  Graciela tsked but said nothing.

  “Mother confided everything in you—toward the end, I mean. So tell me, what can I expect? What do you know about this woman?”

  “Nada. Not much more than you already know. She’s been in prison—”

  “Because of what happened to my sister.”

  “Sí. And now she’s coming here.”

  “A prisoner. Here. What are people going to think?”

  “It’s none of their business, mija. That’s why you did good to send that periodista away. Familia, verdad? Like your mama always said, secrets don’t hurt anyone until they get away.”

  “Easy for Mother to say. She’s dead.”

  “Dios la tenga en su gloria,” Graciela said, crossing herself and punctuating the gesture with a kiss to the tips of her fingers.

  “Oh, sure,” Celeste said, “she gets to rest in peace, while the rest of us—”

  The three-tone chime of the front door interrupted her thought.

  Normally it fell to Graciela to greet guests and visitors, but this time Celeste waved her off. The sound of her high heels bounced between the shining tiles and the high ceiling, a sound that she had always found both powerful and reassuring. At the entry hall, she paused for just a moment to check her face in the mirror. She took a deep breath, grasped the door’s brass handle, and opened it wide.

  “There’s our girl,” Roland said with the affection of a favorite uncle. He stood, hat in hand, wearing a crisp, pale-blue suit, accessorized with a blue-and-gold cravat, his black hair slicked to perfection. Once over the threshold, he greeted Celeste with a kiss to her cheek and whispered, “We need to talk. Just you and me.”

  She nodded, feeling completely incapable of uttering a word as the woman standing behind him came into full view.

  She was smaller than Celeste had expected. In the movies, evil women were always large and looming, casting shadows across entire rooms. They had untamed hair; square, widely spaced teeth; and nostrils that flared to accentuate a maniacal grin. But this girl—or woman, she supposed—seemed perfectly pleasant. Potentially pretty, even, with a bit of makeup and some decent clothes. She wore a cheap dime-store hat that sat on her head like a brown, overtipped bowl, and beneath it, more brown in the uneven tufts of hair. The haircut must be new, Celeste surmised, because the woman’s fingers fidgeted with the ends of it under her scrutiny. Celeste had done the same thing last year when she finally succumbed to fashion and had her own blonde tresses bobbed.

  “You must be Dana,” she said at last, remembering that manners must always trump fear.

  “I am,” the woman said, holding out her hand only after Celeste’s second prompting. It was small and rough and cold, and Celeste found herself tugging to bring her inside.

  “Welcome,” she said. “We have a saying here. Mi casa es tu casa. It means, ‘My house is your house.’” She let forth the last of her nerves in a giggle. “I guess, for us, that’s really true.”

  Not even the slightest hint of a smile tugged at Dana’s lips. “I’m sorry for that.” She spoke as if unused to any form of conversation. “I had no idea . . .”

  “And there’s my spicy chickadee,” Roland said, injecting himself into the dialogue.

  “Bah!” Graciela brushed right past him and, without waiting for permission, wrapped the frail stranger in her soft embrace, muttering a message of welcome and blessing. Pulling back slightly, she said, “Venga conmigo. Come with me, upstairs. Your room is ready, and you can take a nice bit of a rest before lunch.”

  Dana looked to Celeste and Roland for permission.

  “It’s all right,” Celeste reassured, eager to be released from the discomfort of this introduction. Perhaps it would be best if they got to know each other in increments. Neither she nor Roland spoke as they watched the two ascend the stairs, Graciela carrying the single satchel and Dana following behind, head down, hands limp at her sides.

  “So,” Roland said when the others were clearly out of earshot, “no Photoplay?”

  “Thank goodness.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “You’ve had better ideas, you know.”

  “Indeed I have. In fact, I had a better one on the train. Shall we?”

  He took half a step, and she took the hint, escorting him to the room that had been her father’s office. She was in the process of having the whole place redecorated. White—walls, carpet, furniture—with heavy curtains and a wall left empty to serve as a screen for intimate viewings. She sat and he followed, taking a cigarette from his breast pocket and lighting it with the ornate crystal lighter on the low, glass-topped table.

  “You made me look like an idiot,” Celeste said as Roland busied himself with the smoking ritual. “They didn’t even send a reporter, you know. Just a photographer. What’s a photographer supposed to do with an untold story?”

  “Forget about them,” he said through a first puff of smoke. His voice was low and rough, perfectly matched to the faint crackle of the burning tobacco. “We’re going to tell that story ourselves.”

  “Good luck. After today, I’ll be lucky to get my picture in the funny papers.”

  “Listen, sweetheart. We’re going for something much bigger than the papers. This story?” He used his cigarette to trace a rectangle between them. “It’s got silver screen written all over it.”

  THE WRITTEN CONFESSION OF MARGUERITE DUFRANE, PAGES 1–12

  TO MY SWEET GIRL, Celeste, who has been always the delight and sustenance of my life, I take its waning days to tell you all. It is a rare thing indeed when the counsel of almighty God intersects with that of our given laws, and a declaration brings both condemnation and release. But such has occurred. Although I write this at the insistence of our attorney, Mr. Christopher Parker, Esquire, the confession I write here is nothing short of what I have professed to our Lord. I am assured of his forgiveness in all I shall reveal, and I can only hope to secure your own. And as to others against whom I have sinned—and they are many—I can pray they wi
ll not begrudge me God’s mercy, as most have already met him in glory. All except her, for all I know.

  The witnessed signature at its end will show this to be the final testament of my life.

  You should know, darling girl, that we welcomed your arrival with all the blessed relief and anticipation any child has ever known. As well, you should know that before you came into our life, we had another little girl named Mary. She had a beautiful cap of soft blonde-white curls, and we called her our “Little Lamb.” There are features the two of you share, but she had none of your fire. She was sweet and shy, if such could be said of an infant. In our short time together, I don’t remember her ever making a sound that could be heard from the next room. We kept chiming clocks in every room of the house, lest we’d forget to feed her.

  And, oh, how Calvin adored her. He would touch her sweet cheek and entwine his fingers in hers. Even though he risked the wrath of both myself and the nurse, as his fingers were always dirty from his adventures in the garden, he could not stay away. Perhaps, dear one, that is why the two of you always experienced such strife. As excited as your father and I were when you arrived in our lives, Calvin never completely shared our adoration. You would never be our lovely Mary, our Little Lamb, even though your brother often teased you about being the living ghost of that phantom child. If you could only understand how I have longed to meet her again in heaven. That day draws ever nearer. And yet, for much of your life, through my own diligence, exactly how she left this world was never spoken of in your presence. Nor anyone else’s, for that matter, after a time.

  So I begin.

  Deep in your earliest memories I’m sure you remember our house in Highland Park. It had been in my family for three generations, built by my grandfather as the first symbol of his wealth. Your own father never liked to acknowledge that our money came from my family. While it’s true he made an acceptable salary as an academic, it was my money that kept us afloat in society while he fiddled with his chemicals and filed his patents and delivered the occasional lecture. Inventors have been known to become rich, but it helps tremendously if they already are. Ask Mr. Edison, should you doubt.