Excerpt from Finding Dorothy by Elizabeth Letts, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

White Lung? What a peculiar name for a building. Maud was about to ask him why, but as she'd aged she'd learned to keep her thoughts to herself so as not to come off as a doddering old fool.

Inside the studio's gates, the paths and private roads were crowded with people and vehicles. A knot of actors hurried by, costumed in elaborate ball gowns, paste jewels, and powdered wigs, followed by painters in splattered coveralls, a man humming a tune to himself, and another fellow, likely a writer, with a furrowed brow and a pencil tucked behind his ear. Maud leapt out of the way as three girls whizzed past on bicycles. Having spent much time in the theater, she was reminded of the bustle of backstage, but this—­this was such an immense scale—­all the world's a stage! Frank had loved to quote Shakespeare. Here, it seemed to be literally true.

The Art Moderne Thalberg Building was dazzlingly white, its fresh exterior paint as clean as snow. A few scaffoldings still crept up one side—­the building was clearly brand-­new. When she stepped inside the polished lobby, she felt a chill prickle her skin and heard an odd wheezing sound like an old man breathing. She pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders as the receptionist gave her a sympathetic look.

"It's the air conditioner," she said. "Like a heater for cool."

Maud suppressed a smile. Such a Frank-­like idea. A heater for cool. He was always saying backward things like that.

"May I help you?"

"I am here to see Mr. Louis B. Mayer." Maud made sure that her voice conveyed no hint of hesitation. She who hesitates is lost. That was another of Matilda's expressions. Seventy-­seven years old and Maud sometimes still felt as if her mother were perched just behind the wings, whispering stage instructions.

The receptionist was a young woman with a well-­coiffed platinum bob. "Actress?" she asked.

"Most definitely not."

The girl raised a stylishly penciled eyebrow and gave Maud the once-­over, from her gray curls down to her sturdy brown pumps.

"Are you . . . ?" She leaned in. "His mother?"

To her credit, Maud did not show her irritation. "Mrs. L. Frank Baum. I have an appointment."

The young woman narrowed her eyes, the rubber tip of her pencil ticking down the list. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Baum. You aren't on Mr. Mayer's schedule."

"Check again," Maud insisted. "One o'clock. I made this appointment weeks ago." She wouldn't let them turn her away now. She'd been waiting too long for this day to arrive.

"You'll have to speak to Mrs. Koverman . . ." She dropped her voice. "Mount Ida. No one gets to Mr. Mayer without going through her first."

Maud smiled. "I'm quite adept at going through people."

"Take the elevator to the third floor. Mrs. Koverman's desk will be right in front of you."

As Maud waited for the elevator, her blurry reflection looked back at her from the shining brass of the twin doors. She hoped that her expression reflected a resoluteness of spirit, rather than the trepidation she was now feeling as this important meeting was at last upon her.

"Third floor," she said to the uniformed elevator man, stepping inside.

When the doors slid open, she faced a secretary's desk with a plaque that read mrs. ida koverman. A stout matron with bobbed brown hair inspected Maud.

"Maud Baum," Maud said. "I have an appointment with Mr. Louis B. Mayer."

"On what business?"

"My late husband . . ." Maud was horrified to hear her voice squeak.

Mrs. Koverman looked at her with no trace of sympathy.

"My late husband, Mr. L. Frank Baum, was the author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz."

Mrs. Koverman's expression did not soften.

Maud had long since noted that there were two kinds of people in the world: fans of Oz—­those who remembered their childhoods—­and those who pretended that they had never even heard of Oz, who believed that adults should put away childish things. From the look on her face, Mrs. Koverman fell into the latter category.

Excerpted from Finding Dorothy by Elizabeth Letts. Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Letts. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.