Chapter EighteenCLARA’S HOUSE,
early February 1929
“Hey, Daisy! Frances! I’m home!” Clara called, slamming the front door. She yelled over the noise of the barking chows.
I set the ledger aside, and Frances and I met her in the entry hall. Frances hushed the dogs.
“You’re home early,” I said, lighting a cigarette.
She bummed one and lit it off mine. “You know that circus picture I’m supposed to start? Pink Tights? They made Mr. Lubitsch production supervisor.”
Ernst Lubitsch was a small German man who loved big Cuban cigars, and he’d directed Clara in a film called Kiss Me Again when they were both still new to Hollywood. He had a large nose, an expansive middle, and an accent that made me smile. He adored Clara and she loved him back.
“You like Mr. Lubitsch. That’s wonderful,” Fran
