Dreams Are Not Enough Read online

  Who is Alyssia Del Mar?

  To Desmond . . . she is “the last movie star”—and the last chance to save his studio from ruin.

  To Maxim . . . she is temptation in the flesh—and salvation for a price.

  To Barry . . . she is the perfect wife—until her success outshines his own.

  To Hap . . . she is the inspiration he needs to become the world’s greatest director—unless their torrid affair explodes in scandal . . .

  DREAMS ARE NOT ENOUGH

  “All the necessary ingredients are in place: glamor, fame, wealth, travel, romantic complications and danger.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Mar-velous!”

  —Cosmopolitan

  “Jacqueline Briskin keeps the plot simmering.”

  —New York Daily News

  “There’s more intrigue and suspense in this tale than in most Hollywood novels, and you’ll love the surprising conclusion.”

  —Wichita Eagle-Beacon

  Also by Jacqueline Briskin

  Everything and More

  Too Much Too Soon

  Dreams Are Not Enough

  Jacqueline Briskin

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  New York

  This is for

  Ralph and Donna

  Liz and Mort

  Richard and Jeri

  And, most especially, for

  Bert

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons

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  ISBN 978-0-698-19657-5

  Copyright © 1987 by Jacqueline Briskin

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Front-Sales Page

  Also by Jacqueline Briskin

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  1. Beverly Hills 1986

  2. Barry, 1959

  3. Beverly Hills, 1986

  4. Maxim, 1966

  5. Beverly Hills, 1986

  6. PD, 1966

  7. Beverly Hills, 1986

  8. Beth, 1979

  9. Beverly Hills, 1986

  10. Hap, 1980

  11. Beverly Hills, 1986

  BEVERLY HILLS, 1986

  It had rained before dawn on that particular Wednesday in December of 1986, but by nine o’clock sunshine spread like warm butter through the green, landscaped folds of the overpriced Beverly Hills canyon.

  A woman stood at a bedroom window, gazing at the sunlit morning. Even unadorned with her black mane of hair pulled austerely back, a peignoir hiding her apparently felicitous curves, she was lovely. For a moment she closed her eyes and her thoughtful expression altered to one of haunted dread. Then she shrugged as if reminding herself of a task, and moved briskly to a long, narrow dressing room. Behind a professional strew of cosmetics, the front section of the Los Angeles Times was folded and propped to show a photograph of her. With her artfully tousled head thrown back and her lipsticked mouth open in a breathless smile, her image on black and white newsprint appeared far tougher, that of an aggressively sensual woman. The caption read: ALYSSIA DEL MAR, THE RETURN OF THE RECLUSIVE STAR.

  Alyssia del Mar hadn’t made a film in six years. For long months at a time she vanished completely. Her reappearances were noted by television newscasts and the press—the Star and the Inquirer routinely sold out when they printed a rumor that she had been secluded in an exotic Katmandu palace, a Moorish castle, or a viceregal estância in the Brazilian jungle with some billionaire, say Adnan Kashoggi, or a notable like Prince Rainier. Legends have never thriven on the rocky soil of truth and Alyssia del Mar had transcended her own myth. What is more intriguing than a star—an international star of the first magnitude—who quits at the height of her beauty and fame? The public, who had suffered with her through illness, tragedy and lurid scandal, snatched at clues to the enigma.

  Alyssia switched on a surgical array of lights, leaning forward to study her reflection. Her nose and chin were rather too delicate, but in the manner that exacts homage from the camera. Her upper lip was fractionally narrow for the lower, a flaw that made her appear provocatively vulnerable. It was the large, dark blue eyes, though, that one noticed—the eyes dominated her face and had mysterious depths.

  During her lengthy, patient application of makeup, she kept tilting her head, listening for a sound that by her expression she anticipated with fear.

  • • •

  At precisely ten thirty, three cars turned in at the steep driveway on Laurel Way, following one another up the snaking curves of the long driveway to park near the sprawling bungalow whose pink stucco was in need of a painting crew.

  Barry Cordiner didn’t move, but sat fiddling with the keys of his dusty BMW. Beth Gold’s lined but still pretty face was anxious as she peered into the mirror on the sun visor of her Cadillac Seville to straighten the impeccably tied bow of her slate-gray silk blouse. PD Zaffarano’s expression proved a wary reluctance to get out of the Rolls with the personalized license plates AGENT 1.

  Simultaneously, as if summoned by an inaudible bell, they left their cars. Calling out greetings in loud, overcordial voices, they merged in an awkward troika. Before they could reach the front door, a plump, middle-aged black woman in a maid’s uniform emerged from the pink fencing that hid the service entrance. “Miss del Mar says will you please come this way to the backyard,” she said. They followed her along the side path, Beth cautiously avoiding the huge, serrated leaves of overgrown birds-of-paradise.

  The level area of the garden was taken up by a large patio and heart-shaped swimming pool—this coy pool had achieved a notoriety of its own in Andy Warhol’s much reproduced portrait of Alyssia del Mar with her breasts rising bountifully from its blue water.

  The early rain had washed away every trace of smog and the threesome could therefore decently ignore one another in the pretense of admiring the panorama that stretched from the faraway, snow-topped San Bernardino Mountains across the endless sprawl of city to the Pacific, where for once Catalina Island was visible, a lavender hump on the horizon.

  Beth broke the silence. “Did either of you know she was back?” Even though her hands were tensely clasped, her voice retained its soft-pitched, melodious quality.

  “It wasn’t in the trades,” PD said.

  “I knew,” Barry said. As the others turned expectantly, he rested a Dunhill tobacco pouch on his plump stomach, taking his time to fill his meerschaum, a writer’s ploy to enhance suspense. “It was on the front page of this morning’s Times.”

  PD and Beth sighed with disappointment. After more inhibited silence, they heard a car snaking up the driveway. In due time, Maxim Cordiner emerged onto the patio.

  Seeing them, he shrugged his wide, bony shoulders and formed a caustic smile. “Well, if it isn’t the Widow Gold; Paolo Dominick Zaffarano, superagent; and that well-known American author, Barry Cordiner. The four of us.”

  Beth, thinking of when the four had been five, murmured, �
��Do you have any idea what she wants?”

  Maxim lowered his thin, elongated self into a chaise. “The place gives off a distinct aroma of hard times. Possibly we’re here to have the bite put on us.”

  “The run-down condition isn’t significant,” Barry said. “She’s been renting it out. Besides, she never cared about maintaining a house.”

  “Well, I can hardly argue with you about that, Barry-boy. After all, you were married to the lady.”

  Their styles were completely at odds. Maxim wore an unpressed work shirt and Levi’s so old that they were white at the knees, Barry a double-breasted navy blazer with unfashionably narrow lapels and brass buttons left open to accommodate his paunch, PD a black suit superbly tailored to his well-exercised body, while Beth’s sedate gray outfit was adorned with pearls so large that most people believed them costume jewelry, but in actuality were from the waters off Ceylon and insured for a sheik’s ransom.

  In spite of their dissimilarities, a certain line of jaw proclaimed them kin.

  Beth and Barry were twins, the only two on anything remotely resembling speaking terms, and their infrequent conversations inevitably centered on the care of their bellicose octogenarian father. Neither had seen Maxim or PD, their first cousins, in nearly two years.

  Yet once, when there were five of them, they had been so inseparable that the Cordiner clan had nicknamed them Our Own Gang.

  Beth persisted, “Waiting’d be easier if we knew why we’re here.”

  “I don’t know about you, Beth.” Maxim fished a crumpled letter from his jeans pocket. “For myself, I’m on hand because a couple of hours ago a messenger brought this to my place.” He read the ink-printed words, “‘Imperative you be at 10895 Laurel Way at ten thirty, Alyssia.’”

  “I got one like that.” Beth’s delightful voice rose shrilly. “Except I was told to bring Jonathon. But he’d already left for school.” She said the last sentence tremulously, as if begging their exoneration for her son’s absence.

  “I had to put off a meeting with Spielberg.” PD glared at the sliding glass windows, which were coated with a substance that repelled sunlight and turned the glass into greenish mirrors. “What’s keeping her?”

  Maxim formed his mordant smile. “When did the lady ever put in an appearance on time—or keep a commitment?”

  Beth and Barry jerked, twin brother and sister acknowledging in this single unguarded motion that whatever had caused their umbilical cords to be untangled, they still shared memories of one secret time, sweet for both, when Alyssia had followed through on her promise.

  “Given a choice, we’d all be schmucks to show,” PD said. “Let’s face it—she wrecked our lives and—”

  “PD!” Beth interrupted, her face contorted with horror.

  “Yes, PD,” Maxim said, “let’s merely count the minor wounds the lady inflicted. Breaking it up between you and Beth. Dropping Barry into the bottom of the bottle—it sounds like a fabulous miniseries.”

  PD nodded glumly. “Maxim, I can get you a major deal if you want to produce it.”

  In the sixties and seventies, Maxim Cordiner had been a startlingly innovative producer. Critics applauded him, the box office rejoiced in him, and his movies had brought him nearly as much fame as his glamorous marriages and affairs, yet, in 1981, after tragedy had engulfed his brother, he had abandoned filmmaking.

  Barry got to his feet. “While we await Alyssia’s purpose, anybody for liquid refreshment?”

  Beth lowered her dark glasses, querying him with a somber glance.

  “Not to worry, Beth,” Barry said. “If there’s one lesson the doyenne of this manor taught, it’s that alcohol is a poisonous substance for me.” The bar in the den had a Dutch door onto the pool deck and he opened it. “Still the same for everybody?”

  It was. And the bottles on the otherwise empty shelves showed a care for these preferences. A chablis spritzer for Beth, Polish vodka for Maxim, Campari and soda for PD. Barry opened himself a Perrier.

  Drinking, the men began to relax, and soon were talking shop. Barry’s upcoming espionage novel, which would be published in hardcover the following April, was being auctioned off to the paperback houses. PD was closing a deal for Robert Redford and Sissy Spacek. Maxim had recently worked with his longtime friends, Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden, on a human rights committee.

  Beth remained silent. The others feared disclosures from their past. She, however, was the only one with anything current to surrender. Jonathon, she thought with a shiver. Why does she want him here?

  Barry poured fresheners. At a metallic screech, they all froze. The window of the master bedroom was being slid open.

  Alyssia emerged. She wore her favorite color, red. In her tightly belted crimson cotton dress that displayed dazzling white cleavage, her face made up, her gleaming lips parted in a tremulous smile, she was a different woman—no, not a mortal woman. As she came toward them, back arched, hips swaying, she was the ultimate screen love goddess. Even at close range in the clear sunlight, she appeared to be in her mid-twenties, yet they knew that she had begun working at Magnum in 1960, twenty-six years earlier.

  “I appreciate you coming here on such short notice,” she said. Her voice was small and slightly husky.

  “The question is, why?” Maxim retorted.

  She gave him a little smile, then looked inquiringly at Beth. “Where’s Jonathon?” she asked.

  Beth paled until the freckles that covered her cheeks were clearly visible. “In school,” she said pleadingly to her former sister-in-law. “When your note came, he’d already left for school.”

  PD, glancing around at his cousins, realized for the first time that Alyssia had gathered together the perfect group for him to package with her. Barry with a hot property, Beth with the financing, and Maxim the producer. He asked with atypical bluntness, “Have you got comeback in mind, Alyssia?”

  “Isn’t it possible I might like to be with family again?”

  “Such a thought has occurred to me, yes,” Maxim said. “After all, you have, shall we say, an overview of a certain episode that we Cordiners feel is best left in the shadows.”

  “Is that what you think?” Alyssia asked. “That I’ve invited you here to blackmail you?”

  Maxim’s mordant expression was gone. “Tell us what you want,” he snapped. “Then we can get the hell away.”

  Without a word, Alyssia turned. Though something about her posture and walk suggested dismay, even sadness, the little group heard the click of her stiletto heels as ominous. She slid the window shut after herself.

  Maxim narrowed his eyes at the uncommunicative, green-hued glass. “She comes out, she says nothing, she leaves. What the hell is that all about? Barry-boy, you and the lady shared many years of matrimonial bliss. Let’s hear your theory on why she’s called this chummy pow-wow.”

  Barry walked to the pool, frowning reflectively at a dead eucalyptus leaf afloat in the chlorinated water. Why are we here? He couldn’t pursue the thought. His reasoning power had fled. Coming face to face with his ex-wife, disturbing enough after so many years, had fluttered the pages of his authorized history of their disastrous marriage, the version that laid blame for all their woes at her slender feet. Now, after being in her presence less than two minutes, it didn’t seem so obvious, did it, that she had eternally done him the dirty?

  BARRY

  1959

  1

  On October 8, 1959—a blazing hot Saturday—three weeks into his senior year of pre-law at UCLA, Barry Cordiner took by far the most daring act of his twenty years. He eloped to Las Vegas with a girl called Alicia Lopez whom he had met exactly seventeen days earlier.

  Barry couldn’t remember his mother ever actually informing him in her rather nasal voice that, not being rich like his cousins, he had to earn top grades, be prompt and avoid the troublemakers at school. Neither could Beth. The twins therefore agreed that their obligations must have been genetically programmed: the ultimate requirements were tha
t Beth graduate from college, then marry a Jewish professional man who had either already made it or would soon make it, while Barry must propel himself into a lucrative law practice before picking an equally suitable mate. Neither of them rebelled. How could they? Clara Cordiner bought her own clothes on sale at cheap stores like the Broadway while taking her children into Beverly Hills to outfit them at Saks or Magnin’s; she prepared them nutritiously balanced meals. She taught them manners, for she had been gently reared.

  Clara Friedman Cordiner’s father had owned a large shoe store, and she, an only child, was cosseted. Right before her twenty-second birthday, she had been window-shopping along Hollywood Boulevard when Tim Cordiner, hurrying along, possibly a bit loaded on bathtub gin, bumped into her, knocking her down. He apologized by taking her for tea on the veranda of the nearby Hollywood Hotel. He was very tall, and his laughter rang loud and hearty. Being in the movie business, he knew Gloria Swanson, Tom Mix, Irving Thalberg, Louis B. Mayer, Art Garrison, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford. Clara had never met such a dashing man. Of course her orthodox parents would never let her date a goy, so she invented excuses to get out. Less than a week later she lost her virginity on Tim’s Murphy bed. The following month, she missed her period. Tim, who was equally nuts about her, said, “We’ll go tell your folks about us.” In her large, immaculate home, Clara wept and vowed to rear her future offspring as good Jews, with Tim concurring—his virulently antisemitic Hungarian peasant forebears must have been twisting in their graves. After disowning their daughter forever, the Friedmans also wept, then sat shiva, the traditional seven days of mourning, counting her among the dead. Clara’s missed period turned out to be a false alarm, and she took eleven years to conceive the twins. Early in her marriage she discovered that her husband, a studio grip, spent his days shifting heavy props: his knowledge of the Hollywood famous was garnered from his older brother, Desmond Cordiner, a bigshot at Magnum. Tim drank; he cheated on her. Yet when the chips were down—and in the Tim Cordiner household they often were—the couple clung together.