The year is 1950, when the Golden Age of Hollywood is at its peak and the hate of Communism is rampant in American society. Caught in the middle, are two unexpected lovers.....
She is a wickedly handsome seductress with a tragic past and a hunger fo...
For Ethel, there was no better sensation in all the world. It was security in knowing that he was her fortress. It was the comfort from feeling the proximity of his body heat against her skin, letting her know that he was near. It was the sense of knowing that she was loved. Michael was her comfort. She couldn't help but admire his sleeping figure by her side. Slumped down against his blue silk jacquard pillow, one hand rested peacefully over his broad, shirtless chest that heaved in exhaustion, and the other hand grazed her waist. She shook her head fondly as she thought about the long nights he stayed up concocting new stories for future scripts. If only he would rest like this more often.
She turned to move her body off the the bed, but he tightened his grasp around her waist to prevent her from moving any farther. She attempted to gently move his hand away, but he only squeezed her tighter. She gave him a questioning smile and instinctively moved closer to his side.
"Michael, I need to get up..." she whispered in his ear, patting his hand for a response. He sighed restlessly and parted his lips slightly, breathing out a delirious trail of garbled words.
"Olena...," he murmured, "don't leave me...please..." There was overwhelming desperation in his soft, pleading voice. Ethel had never heard him speak in such a manner. It was unlike him in so many ways. The way he stressfully furrowed his closed eyes perplexed her. She was even more confused by the odd name he kept repeating continually. Olena. Who was she, and why was she causing him such distress? Was she connected to that picture frame that he kept in the dresser in the guest bedroom?
With no way of having her questions answered, Ethel placed her warm hands on the sides of his face. "Michael, I'm not Olena. It's me...Ethel!" She annunciated her words clearly to grab his attention. Goosebumps tickled her skin when his tantalizing ocean blue eyes popped open with surprise, immediately enrapturing her into his tired gaze. She fluttered her eyelashes and bit her lips subconsciously. She was unaccustomed to the jittery feeling she always had in his presence. There was something about his gaze that was so very meaningful, reaching far beyond her hardened soul and deep into the shattered crevices of her broken heart.
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Letting out a gargantuas yawn, he slowly pushed his body upwards from the bed and wrapped his arms around Ethel, resting his chin on her shoulder. His large frame made her feel as though she were a mere peon. She ignored the urge to melt into his embrace and gently pried his hands from her waist. She wanted an explanation for the odd occurrence before. She shyly cleared her throat, for she was almost afraid to question him. Nonetheless, she ignored her doubt.
"Michael...my dear, who's name were calling?" she asked apprehensively. She casually picked at a hangnail on her thumb as she waited for an answer. There was a long silence, and he did not answer for quite some time. Ethel could see a clear debate going on in his mind as he pondered over how to answer her question.
"What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.
"You were whispering some woman's name in your sleep...Olena. you seemed to be having a dreadfully awful dream, darling. I was only worried..." she trailed off. He graciously smiled and stroked her head endearingly.
