THE LOVE AFFAIR IS OVER

Leaving Los Angeles was as emotional as breaking away from a love affair that's over. The good memories enticed me to give it one more chance. "There will never be another so special," they coaxed.

My decision to leave was firm and would not be reversed. The movers were scheduled and packing boxes reserved. Over the weekend, I would go through my hoard of concert programs and playbills to choose what to keep for my scrapbook. I knew Misha's posters, along with Hair and Jesus Christ Superstar programs, would make the cut. And I would always keep that one special love letter.

I may never recover from my first movie-star moment. I was waiting in the foyer of Chasen's restaurant. The agent I was to meet was running late. This was an important interview for me — so important I had taken a taxi to get there while my car was in the shop — and I feared I had been stood up.

Forty-five minutes waiting for the agent was trying my patience, and when he did appear, he had neither soul nor sex appeal. I was not inclined to be generous with his lack of talent.

He breezed in, and rather than talking to me, he looked me over as if he were assessing whether or not I was worthy of him before walking away to search for the maître d' to seat us.

I was in no hurry to follow him and had only taken a couple of steps when someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind.

I turned around and was looking right into the laughing eyes of Dean Martin. I was so stunned, all I could manage was to inform Mr. Martin, "You're Dean Martin; you're Dino."

"I know, honey, I know," Mr. Martin assured me. He placed his hand on my lower back, leaned in, and said, "You don't belong with this guy; let's go make some memories."

He evidently took my nervous laugh as a yes because he used the hand on my back to turn me around and steer me toward the door. "I don't want to make a scene and embarrass my friends here," he explained as he looked back to see if the agent had realized what was happening.

We were at the car before I registered the magnitude of what had occurred.

"You don't need to waste your time on that guy. He can't do anything for you." He evidently thought I was the agent's date, and he continued, "If you ever do decide to sell out for a job, make sure the one you are selling out to can deliver what he promises."

I was glad Mr. Martin kept talking. I hoped my nodding and agreeing would suffice until I trusted my voice to make sounds. I had never had a fear of speaking in public, but I had never been starstruck either.

He directed the car toward Sunset Boulevard and told me he was going to show me a part of Hollywood no one else would.

Once on Sunset, he started driving toward the Will Rogers State Beach, but when he reached the canyon that separates Hollywood from Beverly Hills, he turned up the road and stopped at a house that seemed too modest to have a Beverly Hills address. He pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. After a while, he said, "This is where Marilyn lived the last five years of her life and where she was found when she overdosed."

His pensive mood and my awe of the man ensured silence for his reverie. I didn't ask the questions I wanted to, like whether he knew Marilyn and if they were friends or if he was a student of Hollywood much like any newcomer just trying to figure out what it was all about.

Soon he started the car and pulled back onto Sunset going toward the beach. At Westwood, he cut across to Wilshire Boulevard. In the heart of this university village was a large Cineplex that had at least twenty-five theatres. I had been to the movies there many times. I always parked behind the cinema alongside a brick structure that I thought housed the garbage cans for the theater. The structure appeared to be eight feet tall and was a square approximately fifty feet by fifty feet at largest. The area was well lighted, and whenever I went to the movies there, I always felt safe leaving the theater after dark.

Mr. Martin parked in the same place. When he got out and motioned for me to follow him, I realized he was going to try to get into this "garbage storage area."

I was still dumbstruck and reluctantly followed.

At the far side of the brick structure, there was an unlocked wood gate. He opened the gate and held it for me to follow. Inside I could see that this was a mausoleum along the entire wall of the theater. He walked to the wall and pointed to Marilyn's burial place.

The red rose that Joe DiMaggio was said to send every day was in a vial that dangled on a damaged brick as tentatively as Marilyn had appeared to hang on to reality. Mr. Martin's respectful mood returned as he looked at the names on the wall.

Shortly after, he walked to a grave site at the opposite side of the structure where there were regular burial plots in the ground. He pointed to one of the sites and said, "This is where Natalie Wood is buried."

I had adored Natalie Wood since I was a teenager and seen her and James Dean in Rebel without a Cause.

I remembered Natalie beautifully wearing the black and avocado-green costumes designed for the movie. With her black hair and olive complexion, she was exquisite. Even though I was a blonde, I insisted on having a black blouse and an avocado-green skirt.

I did not have reverence for the plot of ground Mr. Martin showed. He probably grew up in Jersey and didn't know much about beautiful cemeteries that took up acres of fertile farmland like the one in Enid, Oklahoma. The one that was so grand my parents always clucked when we passed it, "What a shame so much good, fertile land is going to waste when it could feed half the starving children of Africa."

I had not grown up in the Depression as they had, and I did not share their empathy for the starving children. If I had my way, I would take Natalie and Marilyn and bury them beside Bob Kraus, the talented, beautiful older brother of my girlfriend. Bob had had a single-engine airplane he was piloting go down in a wheat field in Nebraska. A short few years ago, he had been the athletic all-star in our high school. Every junior high girl who could charm him into smiling at her was in love with him.

The beautiful ladies would be safe and happy buried beside Bob, and I knew he would like having them there. They could lie in those rich surroundings and stare up at the heavens, figuring out how they could get from here to there.

At night, when heaven turned on its lights, the sky would put on a light show just for the beautiful young people.

They would like their resting place almost as much as heaven and wouldn't be in any hurry to leave.

When we went back to the car, Mr. Martin opened the door for me. When he was seated behind the wheel, he confided, "This is what happens to pretty young girls who come to Hollywood and don't have anyone to take care of them." I nodded my head yes, believing he was telling me to take care of myself.

If he had ever had any thought this might be a sexual encounter, I'm sure he gave that up when he saw how starstruck I was. He had to know I was in no condition to give consent, and he was not a man who would take advantage.

I told him where I lived, and when we arrived at Barrington and Gorham, he got out and opened my door. He put his arm around my shoulder as we walked to the patio of my...