Read Online Dreams Are Not Enough by Jacqueline Briskin - Free Book Online Page B

with discreet gold buckles, well-tailored gray slacks and open, gray-striped sport shirt with a paisley ascot tucked in, he was infinitely distinguished. The two wings of silver in his thick, recently barbered black hair appeared placed there by aristocratic heredity. His tall, well-toned body—at sixty thickened a bit around the belt line—gave no hint of childhood deprivation. Neither did his face offer a clue to his peasant origins. The grooved forehead was high, the nose long and narrow, and in relaxation, the mouth showed a quirk of superiority.
    In the seven years since Art Garrison, the near-dwarf founder of Magnum Pictures, had died and Desmond Cordiner had taken over as studio chief, the Magnum publicity department had been planting items linking the current boss with world-class celebrities. Desmond Cordiner had been on the cover of Life in a golf cart with President Elsenhower, and visited Hyannisport to spend a weekend with Senator Kennedy, who was currently campaigning to get the Democratic nomination for the presidency. A much televised strip of film showed him relaxing aboard HMS Britannia with Her Majesty and Prince Philip.
    A recent issue of Forbes devoted to an in-depth article on Magnum Pictures pointed out that Desmond Cordiner was no vulgarian like his dead boss, Art Garrison; no crude Harry Cohn; no mala prop making Louis B. Mayer; no arriviste Skouras or Zanuck: here was one movie mogul capable of holding his own with the patrician New York bankers who financed films.
    As his sons, his nephews and niece came into sight, he showed his slightly oversized white teeth in a fond smile, moving up the steps, greeting them indulgently.
    Barry mumbled, “Uncle Desmond, this is my wife, Alicia.”
    Desmond Cordiner took off his sunglasses; his dark eyes fixed on her.
    She had never seen eyes quite like this. As he stared at her they seemed to turn to black glass, depthless and flat. The worldly gentleman faded and there were only the coldly assessing eyes probing into her flesh, her skull, her guts, her ovaries.
    “So you’re the hot little number who’s caused all the fuss.”
    Alicia hid her trepidation in the usual way, with bravado.
    “Guilty,” she said blithely.
    “Well, you do have something. Even in a town of pretty girls, I have to admit you have something. Maybe the eyes, maybe the skin….” He shrugged as if reminding himself he wasn’t in his office considering some young actress’s physical attributes.
    “You and Barry come on inside.”
    Barry made an uncertain sound in his throat.
    “Dad,” Hap said, “we were all at the wedding. It’s legal and binding.”
    Desmond Cordiner replied genially, “When the law’s in question, Hap, I get advice from the head of legal.” He opened a glass door, glancing from Barry to Alicia.
    Barry went inside, and a second later Alicia followed. He has a reputation or being cutthroat in business. Dad, but he’s a terrific family man, Hap had said. Now if only she knew whether she were business or family.
    The living room of the Zaffarano beach house had a wall of windows overlooking the bay, which made it appear yet more expensive, not that it needed such embellishment. Centuries-old Provencal tables and chests mingled with deep chairs and couches upholstered in various patterns of blue and white toile dejouy. Desmond Cordiner went to the paneled bar, poured himself a large shot ofJ&B and carried the drink to an ell at the far end of the room where they could not be seen from the deck, indicating with his free hand that Barry and Alicia should sit on the berg ere chairs facing him.
    “Barry,” he said jovially.
    “The good news about this is it proves that you’re not a faggot.” Desmond Cordiner stubbornly manifested his hatred of homosexuals in a business where a large number worked with great and indispensable talent. Of necessity he hired gay people, but whenever problems arose on a film, he laid the blame on them. His loathing was