Scarlet Redemption

by Lani Wendt Young

  She is magnificent. Unafraid. Unapologetic. She’s wholly and truly alive, and issuing you with the bold invitation to rejoice with her and in her.

  She is beautiful.

  She is me.

  I hate Los Angeles. The airport alone is enough to have you wishing you were somewhere else. Anywhere else. I get a cab straight to the gallery. I’m only here for the day. I don’t want to be in this city for any longer than I need to be. I’ve purposely chosen to come in the middle of the day because I want to slink in unnoticed, take a furtive glimpse of my picture on the wall and then get the hell out of here. After taking a photo of course. I need visual evidence that I was once a cover model.

  But there’s a crowd at the doors. Not moving, just standing. “What’s going on?” I ask a random woman in the line. “Something happened to the show?”

  She gives me a funny look. “This is the line. We’re waiting to go in.”

  Seeing my puzzlement, she says, “Haven’t you been to a Richard Brandt show before?”

  “No. This is my first,” I confess.

  “They’re always packed out,” she explains.

  “But it’s been open since Monday?”

  She responds with disbelief at my ignorance, a generous serving of art snobbery. “It’s Richard Brandt. Every piece sold by the end of the first day.”

  Oh. I don’t know whether to be hyped that someone has bought my picture – or sad because it means there’s no hope I can buy it (for a much much discounted pity price) when nobody wants it.

  Finally it’s our turn to get inside the doors. There’s another crush of people waiting in the outer reception area. A group exits in a rush of expensive perfume. A man in a red suit bumps into me. He mumbles an automatic apology. But then he looks at me and there’s a flash of something – recognition? “It’s you,” he says. Surprise and something else. Something admiring. He turns to his friends. “It’s her!”

  Then there’s a surreal moment. A flurry of exclamations, handshakes, congratulations and compliments. ‘Beautiful…stunning…so much celebration…exquisite…perfect model…Brandt’s truly outdone himself this time…’

  Flustered and bemused, I smile inanely, shake hands and smile some more. I have no idea what they’re talking about. I’m only grateful that I wore the green wrap dress and let Nina do nice things to my hair. Otherwise nobody would be able to connect me with Richard’s picture.

  “Thank you,” I say. I think. “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “I loved all of them,” the red suit man says expansively.

  All of them? What’s he talking about?

  Then I step inside and I know.

  On one side of the room, are three giant canvases that take up the entire wall, floor to ceiling. Of me. Down another wall are five more. Of me. In the next overflow room is a wall with five more pictures. Of me. On the beach. In the water. Sitting on the sand with the white lace of foam around me. Leaning against patterned lava rock and looking out to the horizon. He even captured that frenzied moment when the wave smashed into me – the exhilarated surprise on my face, my arms outreached to the sky with the deluge of water frozen all around me.

  It’s all there. On full display for everyone and their dog to look at. My legs, just skimmed by the scrap of wet lava-lava tied low on my hips. Taro thighs and rugby-player calves. My breasts – covered thank goodness – but practically spilling out of the halter top. My belly, awww fuck, there it is, the generous swell and curve. No Spanx. No sucking in. No carefully angled camera shot. Just me. All of me.

  I can’t breathe. I want to run and hide but I’m rooted to the spot. Panic chokes me. Shame paralyzes me. I want to cry. How could he do this to me? How could he put me on display like this? I feel ill.

  There’s a press of people behind me so I can’t back out of there. A stand of greenery calls to me from a corner. Temporary sanctuary. I go to it, head down, and then stand there trying to stop the shaking. Deep breaths. You can do this. Don’t fall apart.

  But as I stand there, the murmuring of the crowd ebbs and flows around me. Snatches of conversation. Some discussing the photography with technical words I don’t understand, and others remarking on the model. On me.

  “Stunning.”

  “The symmetry…the lushness…joyous…wild…freedom…unashamed…happy…so beautiful…natural…”

  Slowly, the shame and panic subsides and in their place is something else. A surprised kind of awe.

  They like the pictures. I remember that day. Richard’s directives and reassuring words. But more than that, I remember Jackson. Coaxing a smile from me, putting me at ease, transforming that afternoon from something painful to something lighthearted and fun.

  Of course. It made perfect sense now. Joy.

  Then I walk around the corner and there he is. The broad arms, the strong sure lines of his torso, the dancing light in his eyes as he laughs down at me with his hair clinging to his forehead. I come to a standstill. All the pictures in the exhibit are of me alone. Except for these three. Richard has captured three perfect shots of me. And Jackson.

  One of us from a distance, while we’re sitting in the shade. We aren’t looking at the camera, totally unaware of it’s presence. I must be talking because I’ve got my hands up, one of my crazy hand motions forever caught on camera while I blather on about something intense. Jackson is looking at me. Even in the removed profile, the expression on his face is unmistakable. He looks like a man entranced. By every ridiculous word coming out of my mouth. Which can’t possibly make sense.

  Can it?

  The second print is of us in the water. He’s pulled me up out of the churning foam and I’m a drenched mess with my shirt clinging to everything I don’t want it to. He has his arms around me and I’m leaning back against his chest – laughing. Looking straight at the camera, utterly delighted and alive. And who wouldn’t be? With all that glorious man pressed against you, I ask? We look happy. Together. We look like we belong. Together. Which makes no sense.

  Does it?

  But it’s the final picture which knocks the air out of me. Richard must have taken it right after Jackson tripped and fell in the shallows, with me in his arms. I’m lying on the sand, with Jackson above me, sinewy arms on either side as he holds himself poised above me. Neither of us is smiling. Because we’re staring into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the world around us. Because we are well and truly lost in each other, like it’s the most perfect thing to be lying on itchy sand on a beach in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. We look like we’re in love. Which makes no sense. At all.

  Right?

  In the cab, through the ugly bleakness of LAX and all the long way home, I am quiet. Thinking of a slideshow of black and white images going through my mind. Yes I’m excited to be the star of a Richard Brandt exhibit and proud that every single photo has sold, but more than that – I’m sad. Unbearably so. Because seeing Jackson and I together in blown-up proportions has confirmed what I’ve been mulling over in the back of my mind since I left Samoa.

  I was wrong to say no to him. To break up before we even began. To shut down the possibility of us. Why didn’t I just tell him what had happened in my confrontation with my mother? Tell him I was sad, confused, and needed a bit of time to process it all? Why couldn’t I have trusted that he would be capable of handling a few more of my secrets? Why couldn’t I see then that what we had, would have been strong enough to bridge the messy differences between us? Sure it would have been a crazy leap of faith, but whatever happened, wherever that wild dance took us – it would have been worth it. He was worth it.

  I’m ready now. To take that leap. But Jackson’s gone. And no amount of cake is going to bring him back.

  At home I debrief with Nina over sundaes. I come unglued. Completely. Crying into my melting chocolate.

  “You said you didn’t care any more. You said you were over him,” accused Nina.

  “I lied,” I sob into my ice cream. “I miss him so much. Ever
y day. I think about him. Every night. I didn’t think I was worth him. I didn’t believe we had a chance.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I know I was wrong. But its too late!” I hiccup and blow my nose on the tablecloth.

  Nina gives me a look of disgust. ‘Ugh. That’s not true. You can call him.” She hands me the phone. “Right now.”

  “And what?” I splutter, terrified at the very thought of Jackson’s voice on the phone.

  “Tell him you’re sorry. You made a mistake. Tell him how you feel.”

  “I can’t,” I say, horrified.

  “Why not?” she demands.

  “Because there’s no way he’s still single. Or even thinking about me. It’s been months since Samoa. Months! He’s long over me. And he’s got hordes of willing women in his bed by now. Like revolving doors of them! If I call him, then he’ll know how I feel about him. There will be a beautiful woman waiting for him in his bed, naked – while I’m pouring out my heart on the phone.”

  “What would be so wrong about that?” shrugs Nina. “Love is risky. Scary. It means getting vulnerable. Letting people in to hurt you. Sure he might turn you down. But he might not. Isn’t your happiness worth taking that risk? And besides, it hasn’t even been that long.”

  I decide that Nina was right. But I don’t call Jackson. Instead, I write him a letter. One that the whole world can read. Because the new Scarlet Thompson can’t just do things quietly and on the down-low. No. The best way to show Jackson that I’m ready to stop hiding my feelings for him, is to do as he asked me. Go public. Say yes to him. Because romance this big requires - going big or going home.

  Big, Brown and Barefoot Blog

  A Love Letter

  I met a man on a plane. He was #NotJasonMomoa. He made me laugh. He made me feel safe. With him, I was someone else. Someone funny, strong, assured and beautiful. Someone that gorgeous strangers on airplanes would want to hook up with. When I thought we would crash and die, he held my hand and said, “Don’t worry. I’m here. I won’t let go.” I believed him. And the possibility of descending to earth in a fiery ball of carnage, no longer frightened me.

  I danced with a man at a birthday party. He was #NotJasonMomoa. Together, we were every cheesy dancing couple in every dancing romance movie. Flashdance. Grease. Saturday Night Fever. High School Musical. Even Step Up, parts One, Two and Three. He held me in his arms and said, “What are you afraid of? Why don’t you want anyone to see the real you?” I had no answer. Not then anyway. So we just danced and it was perfection.

  I fell over onto a man at the beach. Squished the air right out of him. He was #NotJasonMomoa. He rescued me from a surprise wave. Lifted me up out of a washing machine spin of sand and saltwater and then I had to go and fall on him. Of course. We laughed. Being there in his arms, under a wild grey sky was right. It’s where I was meant to be. He said, “You’re beautiful.” I laughed. When what I should have said was, Thank You. When what I should have said was, So are you.

  I looked at stars with a man in Samoa. A scattering of black diamonds on a velvet expanse of sky. He was #NotJasonMomoa. He talked of apple pie and the bones of my spine, the bite of my teeth. He said, “We are hewn of stars, and only when I look at you, do I believe it.” And he didn’t laugh afterwards. Imagine that! It wasn’t a joke. He actually meant it. In that moment, I felt as brilliant and as eternal as those distant stars, light years of being.

  I loved a man in a rainforest as the full-bellied sky burst with heaviness. He was #NotJasonMomoa. Warm rain and the crush of teuila all overlaid with the heady fragrance of ripe mosooi wilting in the noonday sun. He promised the only thing I would be drunk on – was him. And he spoke true.

  I couldn’t look as a man delivered a baby in the backseat of a car. He was #NotJasonMomoa. He soothed with calm words and guided with strong sure hands. He stilled my frantic panic and together we watched as they delivered the second of my sister’s twins. Tears, sweat and blood coalesced into two perfect tiny humans. Then tired and bloodstained, he smiled at me. In his smile I saw the possibility of a future together.

  He was not Jason Momoa.

  He was something so much better. He was real and flawed and complicated. He saw through my lies and didn’t run from my secrets. I was afraid and I sent him away. I messed up.

  If you’re reading this, if you even still think of me, then know that I’m sorry.

  Please come back.

  When my publisher had suggested they sign me up to be a featured author at the annual Romance Readers Convention, I almost said hell no. Who would come to my table? I’d be the only fool sitting there without a single person wanting my signature while all around me, the REAL authors were fighting off the adoring fans. No was on the tip of my tongue. But then I remembered a quizzical smile and the raised eyebrow, ‘Why are you so afraid for people to see the real you?’ I heard my great-aunt say, ‘You are too much living afraid.’ So I gave myself a kick in the backside, figuratively speaking of course, and said yes.

  A decision I’m still second-guessing, right up until I walk into the convention hall and see the line waiting at my table.

  “That can’t be right,” I mutter to Becca. “Must be the wrong table.”

  She laughs. “It’s got your name on it.”

  There it is. A big bold placard reads,

  SCARLET THOMSON

  Writing as NAFANUA DANE

  There’s even a banner with the same words, suspended over the table and as Becca walks me up to the table, there’s an excited buzz from the waiting crowd. “It’s her,” someone says.

  “Hi Ms. Dane!” another calls out. “I love your books.”

  I sit down and grip the table edge tightly to stop my hands from shaking. Becca gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she whispers. “Just be yourself and have fun.”

  I look up at the league of excited faces, countless strangers who have read my stories and devoured my words and I feel faint. How can I possibly have fun? These people have been party to my innermost thoughts and fancies. They’ve poured over every one of my words – even the sexy bits. Oh hell, especially the sexy bits. How could they not think I’m a complete whore?

  Stop it Scar! That’s the shamed and shameful woman inside you talking there. Shut up.

  “You ready?” asks Becca.

  I nod, not trusting my voice.

  “Right. This is how it works,” she explains. “To move it along, there’s a limit of three books per person and everyone’s had to write the names on a Post-it of who they want the books signed to. That way you don’t have to waste time asking for spelling. We’re allowing pictures but only while you’re signing their books and I have Jonas and Alex here who will help take the photos using their phone camera. No-one is to touch you or come to your side of the table. The boys will make sure you’re okay all throughout.”

  Jonas and Alex are two nice looking men in jeans and suit jackets. They give me reassuring smiles and I feel marginally better. I’m not worried about anybody invading my personal space or going into a fangirl fit – because let’s face it, its far more likely that I’ll have a meltdown and hide under the table, rocking on my knees. But having them as backup crew is like having a team of supporters guaranteed to be on my side. If only because they’re getting paid to be.

  “Right. You ready?” asks Becca. Again.

  “Yes. Bring it on.” Ha, that sounded strong and confident! Let’s do this.

  I plaster a smile on my face and the first person runs over to perch on the seat in front of the table. A tiny young woman, in her twenties maybe? She’s clutching an armful of books to her chest like they’re precious cargo. Like she’s worried somebody’s going to jump her any minute and steal them.

  “Ohmagosh, ahm sooo exsaahhted! Ahh cant believe aaahm meetin ya!” she gushes so effusively that I have trouble deciphering her rich southern accent. A hand over her heart as she takes on a soulful expression. “Bryant is the most amaaahzin man
ahh have evah met. Ahh just love him.” Bryant being the love interest in one of my Red Card romance series books.

  “Why thank you,” I say. “I’m quite partial to him myself.”

  She chatters on about all Bryant’s redeeming qualities as she hands me her precious books with a Post-it stuck on top and right then I want to cry. I want to freeze this moment, right here, right now and remember it forever. My first real fan. My first ever-signing. My first ever moment where I feel like a real live author. I sign her books and try not to drip tears on the pages. It takes everything I have not to leap up and hug her, not to sob loudly, Oh thank you for reading my books!’

  Then it’s the next person’s turn, this time an older woman with greying hair in a bun. She tells me the books are for her grand-daughter who couldn’t get off work to come to the signing. “She adores your work,” she says. “She’s read all your books at least six times over. Worships Bryant.” Then, just before she gets up to go, she leans forward to whisper conspiratorially, “But I’m a Harrison fan myself. Bad-boys do something wicked to me, y’know?”

  And so it goes. Everyone is friendly and full of encouragement and praise. For the characters. For the love scenes. For the romance. For the honeymoons in the Pacific islands especially. For convincing bad boys. I’m not freaking out anymore because I’m having the time of my life. Who knew that there were this many people in the world who actually read my books? And liked them enough to stand in line to meet the author and get her signature? I sure didn’t.

  Two hours go by and my hand’s getting sore. My cheeks are hurting from all the smiling. I’m shifting into automaton mode. Hi, lovely to meet you! What name do you want your books signed to? Thank you so much for your book support. I’m so glad you enjoyed them. Yes, the next book will be out soon….Hi, lovely to meet you! What name do you want your books signed to?...blah blah.