“You’re damn right I am. What is the meaning of this cryptic phone call? I’m ‘married to Joan.’ Why, it’s absurd…”
Dash made a big show of this, but Joan watched his eyes and his dismay didn’t quite reach them. He knew something.
“If you’ll sit down, Harry will explain,” she simpered, turning on the charm. This was his fault. Joan felt it in her gut. He was going to take the rap for it if she had anything to say about it. Leda Price wasn’t going to slander her name in the papers. Not if Dash wasn’t going down with her.
Dash looked at her and put his hands up in mock surrender. “All right, all right, don’t flip your wig. I’ll sit down. Now, Harry, would you please tell me what the hell this is all about?”
“Somehow, I don’t know how, but somehow I’m married to you.” Joan started in on him, wanting him to understand what a disaster this was, but Harry gave her a look and she retreated to a leather chair on the other side of the office.
“The dame’s wacky,” Dash declared.
Harry sighed and leaned back against his desk, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Joan felt a pang of guilt; he looked wearier than she’d ever seen him. He sat between the two Oscars the studio had won for Best Picture, the most recent for Dash’s picture about a Wall Street schmuck turned hobo after the Crash of ’29. Joan glared at Dash, and Dash studiously avoided her gaze by staring at the Oscar.
“Dashiell, I regret to inform you that Joan is not, as you so colorfully put it, ‘wacky.’ She’s dead serious. You two are in fact, as the kids say, hitched.”
“But how? And why did this even come up?” Dash looked as confused as Joan felt. Maybe he really wasn’t responsible. But how else could this have happened?
“If Mr. Howard will allow a lady to explain—”
Dash rolled his eyes and waved his hand for her to go on.
“As I know you’re aware, I’m engaged to Monty Smyth.”
Dash got a wolfish grin on his face. “Yes, of course. I was sorry to hear you didn’t appreciate my engagement present.”
Joan scowled and resisted the urge to rise in fury. The gall of this man! “I’m not the only one who didn’t appreciate it. As usual, your thoughtlessness cost the studio time and money. Your gift stunk.”
“Oh-ho-ho, you’ll find it’s quite the opposite in this case. I made sure of it. At any rate, I don’t think you invited me down here to discuss your engagement present. Have you perhaps changed your mind and opted to swap a mealymouthed sap for a more rugged type?”
Dash winked at her, and her cheeks flamed. No man knew quite how to irritate her the way he did. “I can assure you I would never. Monty’s twice the man you’ll ever be. He, at least, has character.”
Harry cleared his throat again. Joan looked at him pleadingly. Dash was trying her patience, and they didn’t have much time as it was. Leda Price was probably putting her poison pen to paper as they spoke. She needed to stop bickering and get to the point.
“As I was saying, we announced our engagement yesterday evening, and this morning I received a rather nasty phone call from Leda Price. She told me you and I are married and that by tomorrow morning, every paper in America will have a headline declaring me a bigamist.”
“That vulture—you know half of what she writes isn’t true.”
Joan inhaled, praying for patience. “You know as well as I do that it doesn’t matter. The public will lap up anything she prints. And at any rate, it seems this time she is correct.”
All of the color drained out of Dash’s face before he recovered himself. “How is this possible?”
Joan glared at him. She couldn’t shake the sense that he was responsible.
“About a year and a half ago, the two of you were making Wedding Crazy,” Harry began to explain. “As you may remember, there was an extensive wedding scene in that. You and Joan exchanged vows in character.”
“I fail to see how that would be viewed as a legal marriage.” Dash sat back, looking pleased with himself. Joan rolled her eyes.
“I know you think we’re too stupid to realize that’s not a legally binding ceremony, but it’s more complicated than that, Mr. Howard,” she said, employing her haughtiest acting voice. Joan was from Oklahoma, but with enough elocution lessons, she could go full transatlantic socialite when it was called for. How dare he think they hadn’t thought this through? Didn’t he know if there were any way around this, she would’ve clung to it? This was her engagement that was ruined, after all.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it, Joan. But I would like to know how a fake marriage suddenly became real. Were we even married by a real minister?”
Harry looked cowed. “I’m afraid you were, yes. Neal Dodd is on contract here, but he’s also a real minister. You could say we signed him because he, er, really looks the part.”
“Oh, admit it, Harry,” Joan snapped, “you wanted to save money on his cleric’s collar and vestments. You hired him because he could bring his own to set and the studio wouldn’t have to provide them.”
Dash laughed, a deep, booming, full-throated laugh. A laugh that conjured up images of the most masculine things Joan could think of—cigars and horses and wide-open spaces. It gave her a little fluttery sensation in her stomach. She hated it.
“Nothing gets by her, does it, Harry? You and I both know she’s right, you old skinflint.” Was Dash Howard actually agreeing with her? “But still, doesn’t this have to go through the court? Joan and I never got a blood test, a license, nothing.”
“That’s what we’re trying to work out,” she replied. “Show him the certificate, Harry.” Harry pulled a piece of paper off his desk and held it out to Dash. Joan couldn’t stay seated any longer and came to peer over Dash’s shoulder while he read it. She’d already studied it in great detail while they waited for Dash to arrive, and it looked every inch the real deal. A marriage certificate signed by Joan Davis and Dash Howard.
Dash looked truly panic-stricken now, and Joan had to admit she was relishing it the tiniest bit. If she had to endure this situation, at least Dash was feeling as tortured as she was. “But how did our names get on here?”
“It was a publicity stunt, don’t you remember? Harry had us sign a gag certificate in our costumes and take pictures. ‘Davis and Dash tie the knot at last!’ ‘Davis and Dash are Wedding Crazy!’ Remember all the ads in the paper?”
“Doll, if I tried to remember every one of my publicity shoots, I’d have no room in my head for anything else.”
Joan rolled her eyes. “Please refrain from calling me ‘doll.’”
“Why? If we’re married, I should be allowed to call you ‘doll.’” He winked at her. “What a stupid idea, Harry. A publicity stunt of our fake wedding. Honestly. This is what Leda is using to say we’re married? It won’t hold up in court. These fake photos and the fact that we exchanged vows—in character, I might add—under the guidance of a real minister?”
Joan looked at Harry, urging him to go on. If she had to explain this next bit to Dash, she’d throttle him before she got through it.