Slim, ignoring him. '-Then we're off to Paris. Betty'll leave to film in London, and Leland and I will head to Munich to meet the Baroness.'
'The Baroness...?'
'Von Trapp. Nun-turned-nanny. Snagged the father, fled the Nazis. She's written a memoir about their singing litter in lederhosen. Leland thinks there's a musical lurking in there somewhere. We're going to negotiate the life rights.'
'I've always thought those SS boys could be whipped into a marvelous chorus line,' Truman posited, poking two bread rolls with fork-and-knife, staging his own version of Chaplin's Dinner Roll Dance, manipulating the doughy 'feet' into a goose-stepping series of high kicks, to a jazzed-up rendition of Deutschland über alles.
'Oh, Tru.' Slim shook her head, snickering at the notion.
'You really are too much.' Babe, shielding her eyes with her hand.
They sipped their mojitos, indulging a peal of guilty laughter.