Destiny Comes Due

DESTINY COMES DUE

BY PAPER LANTERN WRITERS

ANNE M. BEGGS ANA BRAZIL EDIE CAY REBECCA D’HARLINGUE MARIANA GABRIELLE C.V. LEE JONATHAN POSNER KATHRYN PRITCHETT VANITHA SANKARAN LINDA ULLESEIT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 by Paper Lantern Writers

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. This book can not be used for training of artificial intelligence (AI). For more information, address: paperlanternwriters@gmail.com

First paperback edition November 2024

First digital edition November 2024

ISBN 979-8-9871222-5-9 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-9871222-4-2 (ebook)

Cover design by Jillianne Hamilton

Published by Paper Lantern Writers

CONTENTS

Star-Crossed

Kathryn Pritchett

Tastes Like Diamonds

Edie Cay

Autumn Angel

A Sailing Home Series Novelette

Mariana Gabrielle

A Barren Vengeance

Rebecca D’Harlingue

Call of the Tigress

Vanitha Sankaran

Beg, Borrow, Tomorrow

Anne M. Beggs

An Eye for an Eye

C.V. Lee

And the Righteous Prevail

Linda Ulleseit

The Tenth Commandment

By Jonathan Posner

The Widow Morgan Don’t Take No Moonshine

Ana Brazil

About Paper Lantern Writers

Also By Paper Lantern Writers

STAR-CROSSED

KATHRYN PRITCHETT

LOS ANGELES, 1952

Juli Lynne removed her gloves and set them near the gold-rimmed tea setting. Royal Albert. Nothing less than the best for the Countess. 

Sugar? offered her mother-in-law as she poured a thin stream of Earl Grey into the bluebell-and-thistle-patterned cup. Juli Lynne noted that the flowers’ shapes were simple enough to reproduce in felt. The turquoise background was au courant as well. Something to consider for her spring line.

None for me, she responded, reaching down to place her chocolate-colored dachshund Zeppo on the floor. Trying to slim down a bit.

The Countess nodded discreetly before plopping two cubes into her own cup. A naturally thin woman who lived primarily on tea, Marlboros, and grapefruit halves topped with maraschino cherries, the Countess kept the kind of youthful figure Juli Lynne envied.

After a round of polite conversation about the oppressive, ever-sunny weather, the Countess brought up the topic at hand. 

I understand these skirts of yours are experiencing brisk sales, she said in her clipped British accent. How clever of you.

Juli Lynne let down her defenses and chirped. Yes, it’s not only Bullocks Wilshire that’s placed orders but also Neiman-Marcus in Dallas and Bergdorf Goodman in New York City!

My goodness, said the Countess, raising the teacup to her thin, beet-hued lips. And they all think women, grown women, will wear these skirts with poodle dogs on them? Whatever for?

Juli Lynne should have known that the compliment was too good to be true. Praise from her mother-in-law was as rare as summer rain here in the City of Angels.

They don’t all have poodles on them, though those have been a big seller for us. Some have trees or flowers or even fairytale scenes. I insist that each skirt tells a story. One of my first designs featured three dachshunds chasing each other—a boy pup in search of his true love. Even though she knew it irritated the Countess, she picked up Zeppo bringing him dangerously close to the plate of stale Lorna Doones. It was so popular the shop owner requested one with French poodles. All things Parisian are a hit.

The Countess sniffed, as she slipped a cigarette from the pack hidden behind the squat teapot, lit it, and took a deep drag. Philip’s father’s family came from Paris, you know.

Of course, Juli Lynne knew her husband had French lineage, even though he’d been raised in England. Part of what attracted her to him was the European elegance sorely missing in her first husband or the other Tinsel Town Tommies who pursued her. Philip was a cut above the rest. He even had the title to go with it. Just not the fortune.

I’d like to have met the Count, said Juli Lynne, scratching Zeppo behind the ears. 

The Countess tapped her cigarette on the ashtray. He was a gentleman amongst gentlemen.

Juli Lynne’s eyes wandered to the backyard grapefruit tree. She tried to focus on the golden orbs rather than the window frame’s chipped paint. Her father-in-law might have had a title, but he was no better breadwinner than his son.

Philip’s inability to find a new job was what spurred the circle skirt business. Once they’d married, he’d insisted Juli Lynne quit working. He’d take care of her now—no need to sully herself performing for others. Twelve years her senior, he was an established film editor for Paramount Pictures. It was a fine job befitting a man with a wife who waited for him at home beneath a grapefruit tree offered as a wedding gift by his mother. But then he’d been let go–for no good reason–and found it surprisingly difficult to secure another position. 

She’d done her best to rectify things by chatting up her remaining friends in the business. One of her social calls had turned up an invite to a Christmas party where there were sure to be some promising connections. She accepted, keen to help secure another film editing position by wearing an especially eye-catching ensemble. It would be like going out on audition again. Only now she’d be trying to land the part of film editor for her husband. Alas, there was no money to spend at Bonnie Best, so she’d have to make something herself. If only she hadn’t refused to learn how to sew.

Her mother had sewn for hire ever since they’d moved to America from the old country. Better than doing laundry, she’d said whenever Juli Lynne (then Shirley) had complained about the mounds of fabric littered around the apartment. Once they’d moved from New York to LA, her mother had started her own seamstress shop—a factory, she called it, though it was just two small rooms in an old warehouse. 

Three days before the Christmas party, Juli Lynne borrowed the Roadster—Philip would be driving the company car that day–and headed west to Mama’s to see what she could rustle up for a party dress. 

Elegant ingénue pickings were slim, since most of her mother’s creations were for children. But past the candy cane and Santa prints, a snowbank of white felt caught her eye. She remembered the costumer for the traveling Marx Brothers show saying that she never dressed anyone but the star in white, since white drew the camera’s attention. But attention was just what Juli Lynne needed if she was going to secure a new job for Philip.

Mama, mind if I snag some of that white felt? 

"Felt? For a dress? Too stiff. Better for quiet books or storyboards to entertain church-going children. Women don’t wear felt."

Juli Lynne slumped down in the old desk chair that listed to the right on account of a missing caster. Her eye landed on the turquoise flocked Christmas tree plopped into an old bucket. Mama should have covered the bucket with some left-over fabric, made a tree skirt. A tree skirt!

What about a skirt? she said. A skirt made out of felt would work, wouldn’t it?

Her mother shrugged. Guess so. Easy to make. The yardage is so wide you won’t need any seams. But a white felt skirt—what’s so special about that?

Leave it to Mama to point out the obvious flaw in her plan. There was nothing that special about a plain white skirt made from fabric better suited to a craft project, but Juli Lynne would somehow turn it into something special. She shoved the white bolt of fabric and some bits and baubles from the trim drawers into the Roadster and headed home. 

Back at the bungalow, she kicked off her heels and spread the white felt out on the living room floor as she hummed along to Jingle Bells playing on the kitchen radio. Cinching her waist with her hands, she thought how a circle skirt would emphasize the curves that Groucho had loved to ogle during their tour of army bases. 

But how to make an exact circle, both for the waist and the skirt edge—which thankfully, due to the felt’s inability to unravel, wouldn’t need to be hemmed? She rummaged around in the top drawer of the kitchen and unearthed her brother’s old slide rule—a gag gift when she’d graduated from Hollywood High. You never had much of a way with numbers, thought this would help, he’d said with a laugh after she opened it. Good thing you’re a looker.

The gag was on him since life had given Juli Lynne a pretty good grasp of numbers that only got better when she tried to make it in show biz. Singing with the Civic Light Orchestra and performing bit parts in the movies had earned her some steady income. But she still had to watch every penny to make ends meet. She hadn’t needed a slide rule to manage her budget, but she’d hung on to it just in case. And now its time to shine had arrived. Paired with a measuring tape, it produced the numbers she needed to draw a waist-sized circle in the center of that snowy felt field, then a second set for the hemline. She got down on her knees and wielded a pair of old scissors to cut out her very first circle skirt. 

Up on her feet again, she wriggled through the center opening, smashing her ample breasts and praying that the edge would hold. When it did, she twirled, and the stiff white fabric lifted off her legs like angel wings taking flight. She felt downright hopeful. 

But her mother was right—the expanse of white wasn’t remarkable enough on its own. She opened the bag of trim and pulled out some scraps of emerald felt as well as two packets of green and red sequins. 

The night of the party she didn’t reveal her creation until Philip had honked twice for her to join him in the Roadster. Only then did she trip down the bungalow stairs in the red blouse that matched her favorite lipstick color, Revlon’s Cherries in the Snow. The white skirt embellished with sequined green trees floated just above her ankles. A no-sew showstopper!

What in God’s name are you wearing? said Philip.

Our ticket to success, she said. Now drive.

The Countess stubbed out her cigarette and, with shaking hands, poured another cup of tea. This skirt business has been a charming episode in your very colorful life. But now it’s time to put it aside.  

Juli Lynne grabbed a cookie and offered half to Zeppo. Why would I do that? We’re turning a tidy profit. The factory is up and running and I have orders from around the country.

Yes, you continue to tell me that you’re quite the success.

So, why would I quit? She willed herself not to stuff more shortbread squares into her mouth.

The Countess slammed the cup down, spilling tea into the saucer and onto her second-best tablecloth. Because your damn doggy skirts are killing my son.

Philip was everything Juli Lynne had ever dreamed of—tall, dashing, with an authentic British accent, not the posh put-on of every actor who aimed to be the next Cary Grant. No, he was the real McCoy. Not an actor, but an exacting editor with a knack for splicing images into an artful whole. Much more technically demanding than acting, his work required the discipline of a former military man. The way he commanded a room, it came as no surprise that he had been an officer in the Royal Navy. He still fit into his uniform; the double row of gold buttons neatly fastened over a trim figure; the band of colored ribbons telegraphing his valor.

But the Christmas when she’d debuted her sequined circle skirt at that holiday party, Philip had worn a different uniform to his day job. To make ends meet, he, too, was dressed in white—the white shirt and trousers of a Good Humor ice cream truck driver. No longer sailing the high seas, Philip captained his frigate full of frozen confections through the suburban streets of LA.

It was a good job. Something to tide them over. Even though he had to sit through three days of courtesy training—tip your hat to a lady, salute to a gentleman— to earn the sprightly captain’s cap that was a mockery of his braid-embellished Navy hat. Working his way through the British military ranks, he’d already learned to comport himself with the decorum befitting a royal audience. He could have taught every man in LA something about respectful behavior, and yet he was forced to mimic the affected manners of a beach bum from Burbank. This was one of the indignities that caused him to flinch even now whenever an ice cream truck passed by broadcasting a tinkling Turkey in the Straw.

Not that Juli Lynne couldn’t have returned to auditioning for movies or picked up some singing gigs at the club to spare him such humiliations. But Philip continued to insist he’d take care of her. Ever the chivalrous knight, he’d refused to let his wife return to work, even if it meant he must pilot the company car through Hancock Park to dole out popsicles and sprinkle-covered swirly cones. At least he’d not been forced to park in front of the Paramount lot as a Good Humor publicity stunt. What if his old chums had seen him dispensing change from the coin holder on his belt, rather than expertly handling a small firearm as he’d done in his military career?  Or bowing to a clutch of harried housewives, instead of casting his elevated eye on a mishmash of footage and turning it into a box-office smash?

Once when she fancied a late-night soft serve, she’d popped into the truck after Philip fell asleep and discovered a flask beneath the chocolate jimmies. She carefully tucked it back where she found it. Didn’t say a word. She’d tolerate whatever it took to keep their little ship afloat.

Juli Lynne cleared her throat and stroked Zeppo’s ears before replying to the Countess. My skirts allow Philip the opportunity to pursue his art.

Pshaw. Surely you don’t mean those tepid watercolors he sells to tourists on the boardwalk?

They’re lovely.

They’re mediocre at best. Perhaps if he was sober when he created them, they could be better. But your blind pursuit of fame and fortune has driven him to drink. He was always a man who could hold his liquor until you insisted on pursuing this fashion folly. 

Juli Lynne bit her lip. It was her folly that got Philip out of the truck and away from the flask. Her folly that kept him from nearly running half-soused through a gaggle of children, and stopped the drunken rages that vanquished her own good humor.

He’s happier now than he’s been in a long time. She bent her head to stroke Zeppo’s silky ears so her mother-in-law wouldn’t see the forced bravado in her eyes.

If he’s so happy, then why does he seem so diminished? said the Countess, her voice breaking in a rare display of despair.

He’s forty-two years old. He’s earned a respite, said Juli Lynne emphatically.

He’s a man in his prime—a prime you’ve stolen from him. The steel had returned to her mother-in-law’s voice.

Juli Lynne swallowed hard, then whispered, I’ve restored his life.

If you truly want to restore him to the superior man he once was, you must put these silly skirts aside. Allow him to resume the role God bequeathed a man. Let him care for you in order to find himself. Return home–where you belong.

Zeppo nipped at the crumbs remaining on her fingers before jumping to the ground. 

I appreciate your advice, Countess, said Juli Lynne, choking down another Lorna Doone. You know we both only want what’s best for Philip.

And what was best for Juli Lynne? She’d been blessed with a big, coloratura voice, one that lent itself to her mother’s Slavic folk tunes when she was a child, Mozart and Rossini as an older teen. She’d won the title of Miss Hollywood at age sixteen and sung with Xavier Cugat’s orchestra before she’d even graduated high school. But her classmates quickly lapped her. Lana wore those tight sweaters, skipped class, and got discovered sipping soda at the ice cream parlor around the corner. Now her name was shown in big letters on the marquee. Judy had been cast in that children’s movie with a crackerjack song about a rainbow and ended up with an Academy Award. And Miss Hollywood 1938. Well, she made a few so-so movies that no one came to see.

Except Groucho. He’d seen one, had his people call her to offer her a spot on the Marx Brothers’ tour of military bases. Wasn’t long, though, until he was asking for more than a song. Thank goodness his baby brother Z had run interference a few times, convinced her she could and should do better by leaving the show. So, she did. 

And then she met Philip who convinced her she didn’t need to chase the stars anymore. He promised to take care of her, keep the ogres away. And he did, for a while. But when misfortune found them, she had to step up, didn’t she? Oh, she’d kicked herself then that she’d burned bridges in the business and couldn’t even sew herself a snazzy party dress. Some smart cookie she was—so high and mighty about men behaving badly and mothers who made their living with a needle and thread. 

But her star quality refused to stay hidden. It had surfaced again, in of all places, in a fashion phenomenon made from felt and sequins. How could she turn her back on the gift of the poodle skirt?

She dusted off her hands, grabbed her gloves, and snatched Zeppo. Philip will be home soon. I should go.

Juli Lynne plopped Zeppo onto her lap, yanked on the gloves, and grabbed the steering wheel as she roared down the Countess’s cracked driveway. How dare her mother-in-law tell her how to run her marriage? As if she had any idea how much she took Philip’s needs into account. She pressed the pedal and sped along, enjoying the rush of warm air through the open window. Depending on how his watercolor sales had gone that day, Philip might already be waiting for her at home. She hoped he’d made at least one sale. That would call for just a small celebration. If he hadn’t, it would be a longer drown-your-sorrows kind of evening.

She turned onto Mulholland Drive and the Hollywood sign on the hill came into view. That towering beacon had called to both her family and Phil’s, promised a more benign place for the impoverished. They’d all hoped that the glimmer of the Golden State would turn their golden dreams into reality. But nothing had turned out exactly as they planned. Still, didn’t those types of stories—the dashed dreams, the near-misses, the almost-rans–make the happy endings all the more satisfying? 

Passing by a balconied storybook cottage near Griffith Park, she recalled her high school production of Romeo and Juliet. Already too buxom to play the virginal lead, she’d been cast as the old nurse—a smaller but meatier role, said Mr. Melton, the drama coach, when he found her crying in a corner. Sidelined from center stage, she observed how the young lovers cut a swath of destruction wherever they turned, finally destroying each other. 

Peeking around the curtain in a nun’s costume sewn by her Jewish mother, she heard the audience gasp when Romeo took his own life after finding a sleeping Juliet who he mistakenly presumed dead. Only to have her awaken to find her Romeo gone where she could not go—until she did. Juli Lynne had thrilled at the collective breath-holding as everyone willed the young lovers to reveal their secrets before it was too late.

She turned onto Wilshire and envisioned how she’d recreate the star-crossed lovers in felt. Her mind flitted over the most well-known scenes and landed on Juliet crying from the balcony for her Romeo. He, of course, would be hidden in the evening shadows of the garden below. Where the skirt flared over the hip, she could stitch a curvy Juliet leaning over the railing. Then near the hem, she’d place Romeo in a medieval costume that just screamed Shakespeare. Classy.

But how to depict the anguished cries of true love? The inflexible nature of felt demanded that the designs be simple. But love, as Juli Lynne had discovered, was anything but simple. She passed a faded billboard where Susan Hayward and Rory Calhoun danced in the sky above her. With a Song in My Heart, was one of her favorite movies. She could almost hear the exquisite Rogers & Hart music over the honking traffic. See the beautiful songstress singing her heart out to the handsome WWII officer. Aha! That’s how she’d convey young love, through a torrent of hearts flowing from Juliet’s mouth as she showered her love with song. 

Then she’d embellish the rest of the skirt with flowers from that doomed garden, the floral imagery layering in extra meaning just as it did in the play. Mr. Melton had taught her how Juliet is convinced upon first meeting Romeo that their love is destined to bloom. How Romeo is compared to a bud until he kills Mercutio and becomes a flower with a serpent’s heart. How the bridal flowers eventually blanket a coffin.

As she drew closer to home, she sang With a Song in My Heart just like the woman who had dubbed it for Susan Hayward. A friend had told her about Jane Froman, an actress with a beautiful voice who wasn’t cast in the role because she stammered. But oh, could she sing—as Juli Lynne sang now–about the love that manifests as a song in the heart. Like Susan/Jane, how could she not help but rejoice at such a love? 

She always felt happier, more secure, after conjuring up a new design. Much like what she’d felt when she’d first met Philip. The thing she’d loved the most about him was that he made her feel safe. His handsome maturity, plummy accent and refined ways gave him the air of a fairytale prince (and that was before she knew he sort of was!) 

But now, seven years into their marriage, she chafed at the walls he’d raised to keep her safe. She’d had to leave them after all to fight the ogres that continued to threaten them. And when she’d won the battle, she resented Philip’s reluctance to recognize her triumphs. Even as their bank account swelled, he refused to acknowledge that Juli Lynne was responsible. 

As a good wife, it had been easier to leave things unsaid. Like how much she loved coming up with new designs, and how much she loved making money. The combination of cash and creativity was intoxicating. Despite what she’d told the Countess about wanting the best for Philip, she wasn’t willing to give that up.

Her stomach dropped as she turned up their cul-de-sac and roared past a ghostly display of pale hanging blossoms, her neighbor’s gorgeous but deadly Angel’s Trumpets. What was it that Friar Lawrence said about how the most beautiful blooms could either harm or heal? Within this … weak flower poison hath residence and medicine power. Poison or power. Could the design work that was a remedy for her also be toxic to Philip? Was the Countess right after all? 

The little beach buggy purchased with poodle skirt money hunched in the driveway. Philip was home. Whether he was celebrating a sale or self-medicating after a disappointing day remained to be seen.

Juli Lynne turned off the engine and applied a fresh coat of Cherries in the Snow in the rear-view mirror. She opened the car door and Zeppo raced up the stairs past two rose bushes aflame in the same brilliant crimson. She’d send over a lipstick tube to the dyers so they could custom dye a bolt of felt for the star-crossed flowers.

Opening the front door, she squared her shoulders. Phil? Philip darling? I’m home.

From the next room, she heard the clink of ice in his glass. 

Philip, we need to talk.     

HISTORICAL NOTE:

Dress designer Juli Lynne Charlot was best known for inventing the poodle skirt. Her husband Philip was a former Royal Navy Officer, a viscount, and a film editor whose fallen fortunes spurred Juli Lynne to create her first circle skirt made from felt and adorned with Christmas trees. She divorced Philip after her mother-in-law told her that the poodle skirt business was destroying her son. Yet Juli Lynne always maintained he was the love of her life. Along with the poodle appliqué, Romeo and Juliet became one of her more iconic motifs. Her most famous client–a young Queen Elizabeth–was photographed dancing in the star-crossed lovers skirt.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathryn Pritchett writes about strong women forged in the American West. A journalist by