A Thing of Beauty

by Lisa Samson

  “Pretty good deduction there. Good.”

  “I mean, why should I think I’m that important to the whole damn world?” I gaze out over the harbor, happy that my self-description didn’t shock him one bit. No shock. Not even pity. Just acceptance. This is new.

  The late-May temperatures are solidly in the midseventies now, and the lunch crowd is just beginning to tunnel out of the nearby businesses in search of a meal. And boy, do they have choices around here.

  My past makes no difference to them either. While there might have been some watercooler chitchat among those who care about the lives of famous entertainers and sports stars, none of them are going to live their lives any differently because I quit my job, went to rehab, and then quit my job for good. The latest round of news regarding Fiona Hume isn’t even going to affect what they put on their forks at dinnertime tonight. I have nothing to do with what shoes they’re choosing to put on their feet or how much they’re willing to pay for a good cup of coffee.

  Maybe one day, long ago, I helped people my age foster really bad choices. I can see what a terrible role model I was. But those days are gone, right?

  None of it is true anymore. Ten years is a long time. Ten years of obscurity throws the ball firmly in the other person’s court. It’s on their own heads now.

  “Why did I think I was that important to people?”

  “Oh, you were in the sense that you kept people from thinking about their own lives.”

  “Beautiful. So I provided a distraction. What about the role-model thing?” Might as well get his take on it while we’re on a roll.

  He laughs. “Fia, it’s okay. Just remember that if it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else. It speaks every bit as much about the people themselves, the people who are just looking for an excuse to do what they wanted to do anyway. It’s not your job to judge them for doing that.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Good. It all comes down to what we choose to do. Now, there are some whose choices are forcefully removed from them, and that breaks our hearts. But you didn’t do that to anybody.”

  He’s right about that. “If you say so.”

  “Well, I’d better let you go. Don’t want to tire you out. When’s your follow-up appointment?” he asks.

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “You need a lift?”

  Not knowing either Jack’s or Brandon’s schedule, I say, “I’m not sure.”

  “Let me know if you do.”

  Ten minutes later I look over the edge of the deck, and somehow, only God could know how, they’ve found me. A group of photographers and reporters stand waiting around their cars, chatting it up, hoping I’ll have to come outside.

  Beautiful. Just beautiful.

  Jack left me the number for the restaurant next door with instructions to order anything I want for lunch. I inch my way into the kitchen to retrieve the slip of paper from the counter as well as the menu sitting next to it. There in big red letters at the bottom sits my full-fledged relief in the words FREE DELIVERY.

  Take that, paparazzi-type people.

  Not wanting to take advantage of Jack’s kindness or to give myself a reason to owe him even more than I already do, I go simple. The blood I lost left behind a craving for red meat, so a hamburger will do nicely. And with a side of “secretly seasoned shoestring fries,” how can I go wrong? And how does one “secretly season” something? Is the seasoning a secret or does one of the kitchen staff, and nobody knows who, sneak in during the night and season the fries with no one the wiser? I can’t help it. I laugh out loud at the thought, and man, does that feel good. When I call, I make sure to order the fries just the way they are described. “I’ll take a hamburger, medium-rare, and a large order of secretly seasoned shoestring fries.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” the order taker says without hesitation, a very busy kitchen speaking into the phone with him.

  “I’ll be waiting.” Especially for those secretly seasoned fries of yours.

  “Sorry, but our delivery guy was a no-show today. You’ll have to come pick it up yourself.”

  Seriously?

  “Do you all have a back entrance?” I ask. I should just cancel the order, but those secretly seasoned fries have quickly become an obsession.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Those reporters and all out there? I’ve got a phobia of strangers and—”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure. Come on in through the alley. I’ll just say you’re a friend of mine.”

  I love this town of nice people and mysterious fried food.

  In the span of a second, I weigh the option of pain and hot food vs. a bowl of cold cereal and a lounge chair. And believe it or not, I feel the weight of all my past decisions come raining down to settle in a set of golden scales that fills my mind-screen like a PowerPoint presentation, and not a very good one at that.

  One side is filled with all my poor choices, the other is dangling there with just a few ingots, and only one of those is proactive and not simply reactive in a good way. That decision, LET JOSIA REDO YOUR DWELLING, glows in my picture in shiny gold letters.

  So I can continue to let life and people come to me, eat whatever crap happens to be at hand, in both the literal and the figurative, or I can risk a lot of pain for the nutrition I need.

  “Tell you what,” I say into the phone. “Scratch that order. I think I’ll just walk down and eat in the dining room.” Secret fries don’t have to be consumed secretly, do they?

  “Okay. Sorry about that.” For some reason his voice makes me think of a lot of people on a sofa, all smoking cigarettes.

  “No worries. Thanks for your time.”

  So, okay. Now that the euphoria of decision making has passed, I need to implement the necessary steps between myself and those fries.

  I stand over my suitcase and bemoan my quick-draw packing the day before. Then again, Jack’s closet could be a treasure trove. But even slipping in the back of the restaurant doesn’t mean a photographer won’t go in for lunch all on his own, so the pains are necessary. For truthfully, I just want all this to go away. Maybe I can somehow set the record straight and get some protein all in one go. That would be a nice change of pace from being a hermit.

  Oh, who am I kidding? They’ll all find something to make fun of me for. But does that matter? Granted, it shouldn’t, but does it?

  In the grand scheme of the universe, not one bit.

  I can almost hear the word good coming out of Josia’s mouth and straight to my ear.

  The alleyway is the ticket. I don’t need to play this game.

  Then again, that attitude is what got me in trouble in the first place.

  I stand inside Jack’s closet and am freshly impressed by his shirt collection. I grab one of his tank-top undershirts and a freshly starched spread-collar shirt of cotton so soft I’ll probably just go ahead and sleep in it and wear it again tomorrow. With my gray skirt and black flats, it should look at least slightly planned. And having entered the inevitable menswear phase when I was twenty, that should not come as a big surprise.

  By one o’clock, I slowly climb down the steps to the first floor, my bad leg stiffer than a Buckingham Palace guard. I stand in the hallway, the back door of Jack’s house and the front door both visible with a swivel of my head. Something ignites inside of me. I do believe I’ve finally had enough.

  Enough of Mother, my father, and myself.

  Just like that.

  Is that how this really works?

  Don’t question it, Fia! Just go with the flow of it. Like you said you would!

  So I head straight out the front door and am at once amazed by the bombardment of people yelling my name and snapping pictures. I only expected a few would find this worth their while. My error is both delightful and horrifying at the same time. At least twelve people assemble.

  I remember my signature gesture of a peace sign and immediately discard it on the junk heap of tired-out images. Inste
ad, and don’t ask me where this is coming from, I hold my hand up like the Queen of England and smile, thankful I remembered to throw in my makeup bag when I packed.

  And in that smile, and the gracious replies to questions being lobbed my way, I tell my mother regarding her meddling about in the world of my publicity, “Thanks but no thanks. Ever again.”

  “Is it true you injured yourself due to inebriation?”

  I suddenly recall my role as a teenager ridiculed and bullied and how the character overcame it by throwing herself into her ballet. Yeah, I know. A ballet movie. But she was, and still continues to be, an inspiration to anyone who watches the film. I let her embody me for just a split second to remember what it feels like to be empowered enough to be yourself.

  “Not true at all.”

  “Why were you in the emergency room?”

  I can actually tell where this voice is coming from. Tony. The politest one of the bunch, he followed me around for three years.

  “Tony!” I shield my eyes against the sun of a zero-humidity afternoon. “How are you?”

  Everyone chuckles.

  “Long time, no see!” someone shouts.

  “Hi, Fiona,” Tony says. “Good to see you again.”

  He always did have a nice smile. And he still wears his signature black Jack Purcells, jeans, and a fitted black T-shirt.

  “Likewise. Did you fly all the way from LA?”

  He grins. “Took the red-eye just for you.”

  I laugh and run my fingers along my temple. “You’ve got some gray in there now. Looks good.”

  He laughs. “Thanks.”

  “Then let me answer your question.”

  Two more photographers run up to stand in front of me. My skin prickles underneath my clothing as my face heats up and my leg begins to throb. Mostly men, dressed comfortably but nice, raise their cameras to their faces. Two women, one a redhead with a propensity for denim, the other with a classic bun and black clothing, do the same.

  “I’ll pose for pictures in a sec,” I say. “But I really want you to listen to what I have to say.”

  The cameras lower as my gravity is raised.

  “Do you mind if I sit down? This leg smarts.”

  I head over toward a bench by the restaurant’s front door. Tony runs up and offers his arm. “Let me,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I curl my fingers around his forearm and pull in close, using his side for support.

  “It’s good to see you, Fiona,” he whispers.

  “After all these years,” I whisper back. “You were always nice, Tony.”

  “I always tried to balance the scales for you.”

  It’s true. Nobody took better pictures of me than Tony.

  “Why?”

  “It’s my way.”

  “Well, it’s a nice way.”

  We reach the bench. I let go, turn around, and lower myself to the seat. “I hurt my leg, you see,” I say. “Go ahead and take some pictures and then I’ll talk.”

  For the next thirty seconds, I smile for the crew, lifting my skirt a tad to show the bottom edge of my bandage.

  “All right. I was in my basement looking for a shovel. I’m relandscaping my back garden.”

  “By yourself?” the classy woman asks.

  “Mostly. A friend is helping me out there.” Pandora’s Box sits in front of them, and they smell the fragrance of a new story coming from within. Whether it’s a stench or not is up to me.

  “The man upstairs?” Tony asks.

  “Now there’s a hottie,” says a photographer.

  I laugh. “No. Not him. A very true friend. Anybody have one of them?”

  They laugh.

  “Anyway, I lost my balance stepping over something. Yes, my basement is very basementy, and a rusted rake tine split open my thigh.”

  “So you weren’t drunk?” asks a younger man dressed in khakis and hiking boots.

  “You’re new in following me, aren’t you?” I ask.

  The veterans laugh.

  “Alcohol wasn’t my problem. And I haven’t touched anything stronger than ibuprofen in ten years.”

  “Even for that?” the other woman asks, pointing to my thigh.

  “No. I’m not taking any chances. I’m living a very boring life these days, and I find it’s the life for me.”

  Really? Is this true? Two months ago I was as miserable as I was ten years ago. But the answer fits.

  “Care to tell us more about your present life, Ms. Hume?” Tony asks.

  “Not today. I’m in pain and I’m hungry. I’ve got an exclusive interview scheduled in July, so stay tuned. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading into that restaurant right there to eat some secretly seasoned fries.” I struggle to a standing position, trying not to laugh.

  “A few more pics?” someone, I can’t quite tell who, asks.

  “Sure.”

  And I let them take as many as they want. Finally, “Now go make some money off of this.”

  We laugh together as the disassembly commences.

  That wasn’t so bad, even though I forgot lipstick.

  Tony helps me inside. The first members of the lunch crowd take note.

  “It’s good to see you doing well,” he says while I wait at the podium for the host to seat me.

  “Despite the leg.”

  “Yes, there’s that. Do you ever plan on going back into acting?”

  “Oh, definitely not!”

  “You were good.” He adjusts the shoulder strap of his camera bag. “That’s a real shame.”

  “Is it, though? There are a lot of good actors out there.”

  The hostess appears. I put out my hand. “Thanks, Tony.”

  “For what?” He shakes my hand.

  “You’ve always treated me decently.”

  “Shouldn’t everybody?”

  “Ha!”

  He grins, exposing teeth that would have benefited from orthodontia, but not much. “Yeah, I know.”

  The hostess steps up to the podium. Her mouth drops open. “Two for lunch?” she stammers.

  I look at Tony. “Why not? You hungry?”

  He hesitates and I know why. He’ll lose this scoop.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I totally get it.”

  “You know what? No. No, I don’t care. Let’s have lunch.”

  I turn to the hostess. “Two for lunch, then.”

  She slides two menus off of the stack. “Follow me, please.”

  Tony offers me his arm. I take it, hearing the click of a camera behind us.

  “Would you like to sit outside on the patio?” the hostess asks halfway through the restaurant.

  Yes, outside sounds just right.

  Eighteen

  It’s nice when tables turn as they have between Tony and me. Out here in the benevolent May afternoon, the only thing that separates us from the harbor is a stainless steel fence, the handrail too low to obscure my view of the water.

  So I ask about Tony’s life and realize as he answers that he’s just as I suspected. Normal. Compassionate.

  “I wish sometimes I wasn’t so good at what I do,” he says after telling me about his wife and his special needs child. “Gloria bears the brunt of all that with my traveling.”

  “Why not just be a photographer in . . .” I circle my hand.

  “Florence, Mississippi.”

  Not what I expected.

  “Okay. In Florence.”

  “Nothing there would pay the medical expenses like this does.”

  And he gave up the scoop to accept my invitation. An idea comes to mind. “When this leg heals, do you want to do an exclusive shoot and interview?”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  I nod for emphasis. I might be throwing away that great interview in New York, but who cares about those bigwigs? They don’t need me one bit. I’m the one who needed them. “You’ve always been so kind to me, Tony. Even when I was at my worst.”

  I regret to say I actually pushed him off hi
s feet when I was eighteen.

  “If you find yourself ready for that. Then yes. Of course.”

  I ask him more questions over lunch—a hamburger for me, poached salmon for Tony—and realize afresh how much more there is to people than simple sight allows, and so far, I’ve not taken the time to realize that with anybody. I’ve been guilty of the same mind-set as everybody I’ve complained about so bitterly.

  Josia picks up on the second ring. “Fia!”

  “Major breakthroughs going on over here.” I tell him about my day so far.

  “So I take it you don’t have a new boyfriend?”

  “The photographer?”

  “Already on that tweety thing. Been checking for you.”

  “No. Tony’s . . .” I think for a second. “Well, he’s a friend. A friend I didn’t know I had, but now I do.”

  “Good!”

  “Kinda like you, Josia.”

  “Oh, we’re everywhere.” He laughs.

  “Otherwise, how does it look out there?”

  “Some believe your story. Others don’t. But more do believe than don’t now since the lunch pictures, so that’s at least an improvement. And the pictures look very nice. You’re very photogenic.”

  “Well, that’s better than I expected. How’s the kitchen coming?”

  “It’s good.”

  “Very good?”

  “I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

  Of course he’d say that.

  Brandon looks five years older than he did when he left this morning.

  “That bad?” I ask as he lowers himself into the lounge chair next to me on the upper deck. A couple of birds have alighted onto the railing, their silhouettes dark against the water reflecting the golden sun of early evening. The heaviest commuter traffic is over, but Baltimore is still mostly making its way home for the night. I love this time of day.

  “Oh dear.” He blows out a whoosh of air. “I’m happy to help, but heaven help me, Fia. I’m so sick of hearing quotes from Galaxy Goons I could scream sometimes.”

  He slips his feet from his loafers, stretches his legs out in front of him, and for a reason I don’t know, his sock feet look very dad-like.

  He laughs. “Yep. Well, I’m going to take a shower and wash off the tired.”