Lone star

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“No one flies to L.A. in July,” I mumbled as the driver opened the door of the limo and helped me in.

I heard someone laughing. “Edna, welcome to L.A.”

I’d just stepped off the eight-and-a-half-hour United Airlines flight from Idlewild. “I need a year to recover,” I muttered. I’d slept but a few fitful hours, fidgeted in my tight seat, and was happy to see the limo that Jack Warner had waiting for me. How insane to fly to the West Coast in summer. But business beckoned. After all, Warner Bros. Studio was filming Giant, my massive bestseller about Texas, and I was a co-producer. This was my baby, really, and when it comes to money, I cast a jaundiced eye on how others jostle my cash. And, though I was loath to admit it, the pulse and verve of Hollywood glamour excited me.

I smiled. “Tansi, honey, you’re a tonic after the abominable red eye, but even you can’t redeem California.”

Tansi Rowland gave a shrill laugh I assumed she’d acquired from years of living in L.A. She reached out and touched my arm. “You look tired, Edna. We’ll get you to the Ambassador and let you nap.”

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