A Thing of Beauty

by Lisa Samson

  Oh yeah. “I forgot you say that!”

  He smiles, and it’s tender and paternal. And something, a seed, a spark, I don’t know exactly, stirs within me, and I feel like I want to cry.

  “The fact of the matter is that I did to Brandon what the world did to me.”

  I tell Jack this as he sits in the lounge chair Brandon just occupied, the evening breeze now sweeping in across our faces. I feel like I have my own salon these days where beautiful men come to spend time with me.

  “Where is he?” Jack asks.

  “Taking a shower.”

  “So what did you mean?”

  “Okay, so I never actually listened to him. I let everybody else tell me who he was, what he was up to, why he did what he did, and on and on. Chiefly my mother, and who would choose to believe her? Me, that’s who, I guess.”

  “He could have volunteered up more info, Fia. Not have allowed you to be swayed by the National Enquirer.”

  “I know.”

  “I guess you’ll just have to ask him. But you should. Sometimes being too nice isn’t necessarily the best thing. If he needs to answer for some things, let him. He’ll be better off for it.”

  “I hate conflict like that.”

  “It will be over soon enough. But my advice? Do it. He may actually want to explain himself and, at the very least, apologize. Did the terms of the divorce keep him from legally doing so before?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “Well, there you go, then. Now’s your chance to find out his side of the story. I’m going to shower and change.” He stands up. “Hey, you want something to drink when I’m done?”

  “Sure. Surprise me, and then tell me how your day went.”

  “Well, it was fine until I realized I have some competition out there now.” He places his hand on the sliding door handle. “Who was that guy?”

  “The nicest member of the paparazzi there is. It was time I took him to lunch. Or rather, you took him to lunch.”

  Jack laughs, seeming relieved. “Fia, you’re priceless. And I mean that in the best possible way.”

  I love watching the harbor from my little crow’s nest here on the roof, happy hours going on down beneath me. And who can blame all of the people imbibing? Life is hard. We try to pretend it isn’t, or it shouldn’t be, at the very least, and then feel guilty for not being able to sail on our life like it is a sea of glass. I remember Elena saying, “Instead of feeling bad that we struggle, we should accept the workings of the universe and congratulate ourselves for making it through another day.”

  She was always so right about these sorts of things.

  Jack hands me a tonic and orange juice and lowers himself on his lounger with a, “Whew, that was a day and a half.”

  “You smell nice.”

  “Thanks. But I’m beat.”

  Because Jack doesn’t need a person to pry information out of him like I do, he proceeds to ramble on about the difficulties of his current project. “Every so often I have a client who just doesn’t understand what I’m saying no matter how I try to break it down.”

  “So that’s your specialty?” I ask.

  “Yep. I’m pretty good at being a go-between for the way it is and the way people will best understand it.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Exactly.”

  My phone screen lights up with a text. “Care to use your skills now? It’s from my mom.”

  He holds up a weary hand. “Even I know my limits.”

  I punch the button.

  MY PLANE GETS IN TOMORROW AT 4:07.

  I show him the phone. “I cannot believe this. Why? Why now?”

  “You really need to ask that?”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “And she’s an all-caps person,” he observes.

  “There’s that.”

  “So, we’ve got the whole family,” he says.

  “She’s seen all the social media.”

  He nods. “Must be pretty favorable if she’s hopping on the bandwagon.”

  “It’s a little too late.”

  “Bandwagon’s full?”

  “Exactly.”

  The bandwagon is most definitely full.

  Jack decides that he’s eaten out more than his fair share lately. “I’m going over to the Market and just buy some regular old food.”

  “What’s that?” asks Brandon, coming out on the deck and looking dumpier than I’ve ever seen him in old running shorts and another ratty T-shirt.

  “Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, peas, and I don’t know what for dessert, but definitely something along the order of chocolate.”

  “Brownies? Pudding?” I ask.

  “She loves pudding,” Brandon says, pulling over a chair from the table on the other side of the deck.

  “Chocolate pudding, then.” Jack lifts himself off his lounger, shoves his feet back into his flip-flops.

  Wow. We’re all wearing green T-shirts. Weird.

  After he’s gone, Brandon pours himself a tonic and lime and refreshes my drink. We sit inside to watch the news.

  “I don’t remember you wearing such ratty clothes, Brandon.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What changed?”

  He shrugs and lifts the hem of the shirt for inspection. Portions of the hem are so frayed it looks as if someone came along and nibbled the fabric like an ear of corn. “When you left, I realized a lot of things. Chiefly, money can’t buy happiness. And spending all you have can actually buy the opposite, along with a lot of stuff you don’t need.”

  He clearly has no idea who he’s talking to! Maybe showing him the house on Mount Vernon Place isn’t such a bad idea at that.

  “But you always look nice out there.”

  “When was the last time you saw me in anything but khakis and a blue blazer? Or my charcoal suit?”

  I try to recall the media pictures I’ve seen of him. “Other than your tux, well, I guess I just don’t know.”

  Crazy.

  “But still, you’re always jetting off to someplace. With women, usually.”

  “True. But my trips are always connected to something— an awards show, or some appearance I’m being paid for.”

  “Really?” I lift my glass to my lips, then lower it again. “I honestly thought you hadn’t changed.”

  “Have you seen my cabin at the ranch recently?”

  “Of course not.”

  He grins his famous, classy bad-boy smile. “Fia, sixteen years is a very long time. A man can come to a lot of realizations and decisions in that space.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what’s really important. After you left us, I realized that what I thought was so great, wasn’t. It was that simple. I was a train wreck. You know that.”

  “Then why did you let me go so easily?”

  The words gush out of me and I am horrified. I stand and somehow quickly make my way to the bedroom despite Brandon’s calling me to come back and my wound screaming at me just to stop.

  I lay myself on the bed and will myself not to cry. But I do anyway, and after all the exertion of the day, I realize as I’m doing so that I am falling asleep, and this makes me happy.

  Nineteen

  I wake up, check my phone. It’s almost 9:00 p.m. Two hours of napping, well, okay. I have two text messages, both from Josia.

  Do you need a ride to your appointment tomorrow?

  and

  How do you feel about bir-Birch?

  I text back immediately.

  Yes. It’s at 1:30 p.m. And yes. I like birch. How are you?

  Good. I’ll be by to pick you up at 12:45.

  I text him the address and the message that I’ll wait out front.

  When I make it into the kitchen, Jack is just pulling the meat loaf out of the oven. “Perfect timing! How was your nap?”

  “Good.”

  I face Brandon. “Um, Dad?”

  “Let me get you a drink, Fia,” Brandon says,
his tones bright and filled with earnestness.

  “I’m sorry about—”

  “No, Fia. Do not apologize. You had every right,” he says.

  “It’s true,” says Jack, coming to stand by my side.

  Brandon must have filled Jack in on my meltdown earlier.

  “Thanks. How about some OJ?”

  Jack reaches into the refrigerator for the carton of orange juice and hands it to my father.

  “Have you heard from Jessica?” I ask.

  Brandon sets the glass on the place mat in front of the chair into which I’ve just lowered myself. He sits down across the table from me. “Yes. I made reservations for her at the Omni.”

  So she won’t be staying here. “That’s a relief. Thank you.”

  “Of course she’s upset that I get to stay with you and she doesn’t,” he says.

  “Wonder what social media will say about that?” I take a sip and allow the liquid to sluice away the dry throat my nap left behind.

  Brandon nods. “Who cares?”

  “Just as long as she doesn’t come here,” I say.

  “I’ll try and keep her away,” Brandon offers, “so you can just continue to rest, Fia.”

  “I’ll have to see her,” I say.

  “Then it needs to be on your terms.” Jack slices the meat loaf, a ketchup-covered, no-frills meal.

  “I’ll get her at the airport.” Brandon sits down at the kitchen table. “But before that, I have lunch with an old friend from school. He and I reconnected at the luncheon.”

  “You still all right here on your own, Fia?” Jack asks.

  “Yes. Josia is taking me to the follow-up tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I completely forgot!” Jack says, dropping a liberal amount of butter pats to the mashed potatoes in the stand mixer.

  “I can switch my lunch,” Brandon offers. “Who’s Josia?”

  “My boarder.”

  Brandon’s eyes cloud. “You have someone renting out a room? Why?”

  “Nothing lasts forever, Brandon. Especially money. You should know that.”

  Here’s what it looks like when your father’s heart is breaking in front of you. I’m not foolish enough to believe this is the first time it’s broken, but I’ve never actually witnessed it firsthand. For real, that is.

  The proverbial dawn of realization widens his eyes, just a little bit, but as the implications pile up, they widen further, until they snap shut just before his left thumb and middle finger grind the lids against his eyeballs.

  This is real.

  Fingers remaining in place, he says, “Fia, I am so sorry. I didn’t realize. I thought your advisor—”

  “No. I lost my shirt when the recession hit. I’m just doing what I need to do to keep my house. I’ve been saving up Josia’s rent money to prepare for a big interview I was going to do up in New York to beat Mother to the punch with her book.”

  Admiration lights up his eyes. “No kidding!”

  Jack looks surprised. “Really?”

  I nod. “But that rake decided something else for me. I’m back out in the open now, and there was nothing I could do to stop it or control how it happened.”

  “How much do you have in your account, Fia?” Dad asks.

  “Dad!” I glance over at Jack.

  Jack looks shocked. Why? Surely he realized my financial state from our arrangement.

  Time to be honest. “A thousand bucks.”

  My father looks me in the eyes. “It’s going to be all right, Fiona.”

  “I know.”

  I really do.

  I lie on the sofa, belly full of home cooking, looking at the ceiling thinking about all the money I went through, and how much more I could have had. Scripts turned down so I could go on vacation, paid appearances that seemed like too much trouble. Lila and I were even offered our own reality show, but we turned it down. Some things shouldn’t be burned into other people’s memories.

  “It would be the death of your kind of career,” she told me when we talked it over. “Mine? Well, it’s already not taken seriously.”

  “But it would give you enough to say good-bye to all of this for good,” I said as we hung off the edge of her swimming pool by our calves, our bodies floating in the heated water.

  “Love-hate, Fi.” She was always talking about the love-hate relationship she had with her dubious fame. “I’m doing all right without that. That’s what matters here. Let’s not add insult to injury.”

  “Okay.”

  “And there’s no way I’d let you commit career suicide, Fi. What kind of a friend would I be?”

  After that we ordered pizza from Domino’s and watched DVDs from her boxed set of One Day at a Time.

  Lila eventually left Hollywood too. She just did it in a way she’ll never get to return if she so chooses. That’s the biggest difference between the two of us, and I guess it always was.

  Me? I’m stuck here in a world of caught-between. I could go back. I don’t want to. But if I wanted to, I could.

  I’ve always known that. I’m the one left to continue an acting family dynasty. I’ve got connections. I’ve got clout. I’ve got opportunity to burn. I’m in a place thousands of actors would kill to be. I am a disgrace to the profession.

  But right now my father is playing a game of chess with Jack, and I watch them, concentration on their manly brows, and I see one who has made his fair share of mistakes, and one who hasn’t. And my heart is full of affection for both of them.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever ridden in Josia’s big white pickup truck. The red vinyl seats, carpets, and dash make me feel like I’m sitting inside a warm, friendly heart, and he has some kind of relaxing meditation music rolling through a cassette tape player.

  “Doesn’t that make you want to go to sleep?” I ask.

  “Never.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  I catch him up on all the happenings, the impending doom of Jessica’s visit, and why the thought of seeing her does that to me.

  “I need to ask you,” I say, looking out the window on a late-spring Baltimore, my favorite time of year here in this old, lovable town. “Was what I did—the divorce—was it wrong?”

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “I’m not sure anymore. At the time, it seemed like the only thing to do.”

  “Why the doubts? Is it your father being here?”

  “Yes.”

  He stops at a red light and on the corner stands a boy with a window-washing squeegee. Josia points to him and flicks his finger toward himself as if to say, “Come on over.”

  The youth hurries over, does a horrible job, and Josia gives him a dollar.

  “Just a dollar?” the boy says.

  “Think about it,” Josia says with a laugh. “That took you one minute. You just got paid sixty dollars an hour. Not bad if you ask me, and way more than I make.”

  The light turns green. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. “Come see me if you want to make far less doing something far more exhausting, but far more rewarding.”

  A red Mustang behind us honks. The young man takes the card and we pull away.

  “Why did you do that?” I ask.

  “Because a few have done well, and one time Avery showed up. Best apprentice I ever had and a truly gifted smith.”

  “But you’re taking such a chance!”

  He shakes his head. “Why? I leave it completely up to them if they’d like to come. The people who take me up on it are few and far between. I’ve been doing this for twenty-seven years, and only ten people have ventured in. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime for about a third of them. The rest either don’t come back the next day or have quit after about a week. It works out, Fia. It always does.”

  “It’s about finding the people who want a chance.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s like in the coffee shop that day. I knew you needed a chance,” he says. “But I also knew that I needed to present it a li
ttle differently than usual. I mean, considering what you’d already been through in life.”

  We pull into the parking lot across the street from the hospital.

  “Wait a second.” I turn toward him in my seat. “You overheard me in the coffee shop? You weren’t my scheduled appointment?”

  “Why, no. Did you think I was?”

  “Well, yes, I did! The other guy was late, but by the time he got there . . .”

  Laughter bends him at the waist. “Well, good! That’s very good!”

  “Why?” I can’t help but begin to join in.

  “That means it was just meant to be, Fia. That’s all I can say. Would you have entertained the notion otherwise?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then there you go.”

  The universe turns large and mysterious all of a sudden, like Someone is secretly seasoning things when no one is looking.

  “So back to my question about Dad and the divorce,” I prompt him.

  “Same thing. Does it matter whether the divorce was right or wrong, when all we’re really talking about here and now is giving him another chance? Now you tell me whether that is right or wrong.”

  “It’s right.”

  “As long as you say so, Fia.”

  He pulls into a space and shuts off the truck. “Before I come get you out, may I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He slides his fingers into his shirt pocket, pulls out a card, then holds it forth in my direction. I stare at it for several seconds before taking it. “It’s either you or that boy at the red light for the next apprenticeship.”

  A squeegee is looking pretty good right now. Wow.

  “Hang on, I’ve got a wheelchair in the back. Believe it or not, I had one hanging around at the forge.”

  The card stock is smooth and soft, like satin paper. “Just don’t bring it home, Josia. I think it’s the one thing we don’t have there.”

  “Got it.”

  Written in simple engraved letters, Josia Yeu, Blacksmith, the address, and his phone number. That is all.

  “Can I think about it?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “And if I say no, it won’t change what we have now?”

  “If you don’t know the answer to that, Fia, I’d be shocked.”