Beautiful Mess

by Herrick, John

  “At your home?” She hesitated a beat. “Del, I—”

  “No ulterior motives, I promise.” And he meant it.

  He heard her exhale on the other end of the phone. “I suppose that would be fine.”

  What was it about this woman that made his heart race?

  CHAPTER 15

  THEY CLINKED glasses. He’d opened a bottle of French chardonnay, one he’d reserved in his wine cellar for a special occasion. Del couldn’t pinpoint why his heart had moved within him to open it with his present guest, but he had followed his hunch. Aromatic and rich, the wine proved an ideal companion to the coastal breeze as Del and Felicia overlooked the Pacific shore from on high.

  “Wow,” she remarked as she took her first taste.

  “A good reaction, I hope.”

  “You’re looking at a woman on a budget. Most of my wine comes in the form of a box.”

  Unpretentious—that’s how he would describe her. And, by his own admission, his polar opposite in that regard. What were the two of them doing together, still laughing and enjoying each other’s company a day after they met? A minister, of all people! What did she see in him? He knew it wasn’t the fame factor since she hadn’t even recognized him when they met.

  He watched as Felicia closed her eyes and breathed deep. Breeze tousled her hair. Why did he find her so captivating?

  “Johnny Angel,” the 1962 song by Shelley Fabares, interrupted Del’s thoughts. His ringtone.

  Felicia grabbed her purse and sifted inside. “Yours or mine?”

  “Looks like mine.” Del waved his phone in the air but continued to gaze at her.

  Incredulous, she nodded at his phone, which continued to ring. “Don’t you want to get that?”

  To be honest, he didn’t want to. He wanted to cradle this snapshot in time. But old habits are hard to break.

  “Excuse me a moment.” He remained in his seat and tapped his phone to answer it. Before he could utter a greeting, a scream pierced his eardrum.

  CHAPTER 16

  “DEL! The nomination! I got it!”

  “The Oscar?”

  “Yes! They contacted me this morning and I’ve been in PR mode ever since. But I couldn’t end the day without telling you!”

  Nora’s youthful buzz was contagious. Del recalled his own excitement at hearing such news.

  “Congratulations! I told you that you were all but a lock for it. You gave a powerful performance and deserve this. Enjoy every minute of it.”

  “Del, I have to go, but let’s do lunch this week, okay?”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He paused. The news was bittersweet for him, a reminder of his own shortcomings since his own nomination, yet his happiness for Nora was genuine. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Another scream. Del cringed at the high pitch, then smirked at the idea of this young woman—this old soul who kept her emotions under lock and key—who suddenly couldn’t contain her elation.

  He eyed Felicia. “Okay, then, don’t party too hard.”

  When he ended the call, Felicia studied him over the rim of her wineglass. “That sounded exciting.”

  “A friend of mine. She just received an Oscar nomination and called to share the news. Have you heard of Nora Jumelle?”

  “I think so. Dark hair, right? Young?” she replied, nonchalant. “I assume you two are close?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “Friends, eh?” she said with a sip, implication heavy in her tone, but in a teasing manner.

  Del rolled his eyes. “Maybe more than friends. Once.” He paused, then gave Felicia a second glance. “Look, Felicia, I’m not a perfect man, if that’s what you think. If I was, I’d be a minister.”

  She relaxed her shoulders and set her glass on the table. “Ministers aren’t perfect either, believe me. Besides, I have enough events tucked away in my hippie phase to fill a book.”

  “So what changed?”

  She paused to consider his question. Her demeanor, though steady, grew matter-of-fact. “I hit emotional rock bottom. Then I found my faith, and that tends to alter things.”

  He could respect that. Del nodded but didn’t pry further.

  Then a thought occurred to him.

  “What did you mean by ‘Yours or mine?’”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Earlier, when my phone rang. Why did you think it was your cell phone ringing?”

  “‘Johnny Angel’ started playing, and I—” Stopping midsentence, she shook her head and chuckled, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, as though Del could have arranged this coincidence. “You’re kidding me. We have the same ringtone? I can’t say I would’ve pegged you for that.”

  Del shrugged. “It’s a bit out of character, but 1962 was…well, it was a pivotal year for me.”

  “How so?”

  He thought of Marilyn Monroe. It was one of the final memories he had of her. He had seen a side of her most others hadn’t and, to this day, missed her. She had loved that song, and they had sung it together in the car many times in 1962.

  That was the year she died.

  “It reminds me of a friend who passed away,” he replied.

  After an awkward silence, Felicia’s minister instincts must have prompted her to change the subject.

  “So, that’s exciting news for your friend Nora.”

  Del shook himself free from Marilyn’s ghost and stepped back into the present.

  “Absolutely,” he said, though he had a hard time infusing his remark with more than halfhearted enthusiasm.

  Felicia cocked her head. “You don’t sound as excited for her as she is.” When Del responded with a questioning glance, she added with a wink, “I heard her scream from where I’m sitting.” And when Del offered no indication of humor, she asked, “Is everything okay?”

  Del shifted in his seat. He came from the Baby Boomer generation and preferred not to communicate too many of his feelings. Besides, he wasn’t used to confiding in the opposite sex. His relationships with females never tended to progress that far.

  So why did a piece of his heart want to open up to this woman? That made him nervous. It gave him a sense of yielding control over his own life. Was it because Felicia was close in age and he wasn’t accustomed to equal ground? And if he’d gone this long without admitting this particular facet about himself, why do so at the age of seventy-eight?

  Then again, was there a reason not to?

  Oh crap, I’ll give it a shot…

  “You’re a preacher, so if I admit something, you’ll take to the grave, right?”

  She made a tentative reach for her glass. “Of course.”

  He grimaced. “I’d say there’s a side of me that…perhaps…resents—” He stopped himself and decided to hedge his words. “Well, maybe not resent—that’s a strong word. But when I watch other people succeed in my field, it’s difficult to find, shall we say, enthusiasm to share in the whole celebration. Don’t get me wrong. I want to be thrilled for them. Not that it’s absent—it’s there, I just need to dig for it.”

  “Why do you think that’s the case?”

  With a shrug, Del replied, “I’m not exactly a psychologist here. But I didn’t always feel that way.”

  “So what changed?”

  Why was he putting himself through this? How ridiculous.

  But the sincerity in her brown, teddy-bear eyes invited him to keep talking.

  “I mentioned The Changing Tides…”

  “And your award nomination.”

  What sweet memories. A glow emerged in Del’s inner being, its embers stoked and its flame rekindled. “When that nomination happened, everyone—myself included—expected my career to skyrocket. I received script offers by the dozens, some better than others. The one thing I wanted to avoid was making a film that would discredit me as a serious actor. I had an aura now, a professional with the potential for a legendary future, and though I didn’t win the award that year, the nomination put me on the short list for future cer
emonies. So I made a smart choice—what I believed was wise, at least—and opted for a project that could replicate my success. Try to win next year’s statue. So I signed on to a film with a prominent director, one whose projects were daring yet refined. He was like the Alejandro Iñrritu of the late seventies.”

  “What was the name of the film?”

  ”Gardens of Chile.”

  Felicia’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t remember that one.”

  Del snorted, a mournful little grunt. “No one does. The film plummeted at the box office. We released it in October, while the Hollywood folks were starting to hone in on potential nominees. But the film got such a poor reception, few people bothered to consider it for an award. The only attention it garnered was the director’s and my bad decision in making it. I got devoured by the press for that.”

  Felicia set down her glass. Her clothing swished as she leaned forward, elbows on the arms of her chair, and rested her temple against her forefinger. Del switched his posture and eased the stiffness from his back. In the distance, a seagull screeched. Breakers added a bass line to nature’s symphony.

  “A month later, the nominees were announced. Our film wasn’t on the list—for anything. Not even editing or costume design. I wasn’t even mentioned in the press speculation as a possible contender in the months leading up to the final selections.

  “That spring, a new circle of winners received their awards. And by that point, people had forgotten all about Del Corwyn. The script offers dried up. I lived in the shadows of the next round of actors who made savvier choices for their follow-up projects. Granted, people know my name, they recall a few of my films, but that year, their focus shifted from the future to the past.”

  Felicia scooted her chair closer. So close, Del picked up traces of pear and plum on her breath.

  He took a generous swallow from his glass. Yes, he felt a tad resentful toward those who had leapfrogged over him, but he refused to put any bitterness on public display. He had his pride, after all.

  Del shook his head. To this day, he remained awestruck at the speed at which his career had vanished.

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” he mused aloud. “That Oscar nomination looked like a door that would open to more greatness, abundant opportunities—but it turned out to be the death knell of a thriving career.” He turned to Felicia. “People see the glitz and glamour, but the truth is, we’re working people like everyone else. We have bills to pay. We have dreams and desires, the sense that you can accomplish much more than you have already. So my life has been a series of what-ifs ever since.”

  As Felicia listened, Del found compassion in her stare.

  “You want your life to matter,” she said at last. “That’s not a bad thing, Del.”

  “One week, early in my career, I had a small role on This is the Life. Remember that television show? The religious one? That counts as a good deed, right?”

  Felicia grinned at his sad attempt at humor.

  In this moment of honesty, Del couldn’t hide his embarrassment. “I look like I’m a guy who matters—or mattered at one point. But the truth is, I’m not so sure how relevant I am anymore. And the what-if that frightens me is the notion that I’ll reach the end of my life, and on my gravestone, etched in letters that’ll withstand wind and rain and corrosion, you’ll find a memory of something that happened in 1978, as if I hadn’t been alive all those years since. One inch shy of invisible.”

  Felicia took his hand in hers, examined his aging fingers, then gazed into his eyes.

  “Sometimes we matter in ways we can’t begin to fathom, Del.”

  Del responded with a lifeless chortle. “I appreciate the kind gesture, I really do. But I’ve seen people spend their whole lives searching for relevancy.”

  His mind flickered to his “Johnny Angel” duet in the car with Marilyn back in 1962.

  “Some people’s lives have ended without resolution,” he said. “What a tragedy.”

  He peered down at his hand in hers, both hands speckled with faint age spots, his more numerous than hers. He, however, had tried to hide his own beneath a perpetual tan.

  When their eyes met again, he wondered how far she could see into his soul.

  Del exhaled.

  “And that, my dear, is what scares the hell out of me most in life.”

  CHAPTER 17

  THE REALTOR WAS all business.

  Del couldn’t recall the day he’d bought this home, but he knew he’d never forget the day he put it back on the market. Though he hated to admit it, Pevely had gotten through to him. He didn’t want to trim down, but he had no job prospects in the pipeline, and who knew when he would? He needed to downsize. He also needed to search for a new home and find one fast. Not that he couldn’t fit it into his schedule. These days, if he had one resource in abundance, it was spare time.

  All he had to do was sign on the line at the bottom of the agreement he held in his hands. Once he did, his home would be on the market.

  His gut wrenched.

  He held the pen an inch above the paperwork, but his hand wavered. He couldn’t bring himself to sign his name. Del glared at the realtor.

  “Only serious buyers,” Del stressed. “I don’t want people traipsing through my house on a celebrity tour.”

  “Absolutely. That goes without saying,” replied the man in a red tie and blazer, his tone either reassuring or patronizing. Del couldn’t pinpoint which. “Don’t fret, Mr. Corwyn. I’ve listed and sold many homes with sellers of your caliber.”

  “Yes, you came highly recommended.”

  “I believe your home will sell quickly.”

  Del winced.

  This whole process broke his heart, but he resolved to maintain a firm veneer and the upper hand—even though he felt like he’d lost a battle in life. Like a World War II soldier he’d portrayed as a young man, a fighter who’d suffered a mortal wound in Normandy while his compatriots pressed on toward victory.

  What a mess. His life wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.

  Del’s hand shook as he procrastinated. He stretched to work a crick out of his neck.

  And forced himself to sign his name.

  CHAPTER 18

  THAT NIGHT, Del poured himself a stiff drink. Something to take his mind off of leaving his memories behind.

  He marveled at his own deftness. For so long, he’d outmaneuvered reality, convincing himself that he lived in a fantasy realm of his own making. But today, reality had slapped him in the face with a wet towel.

  As he licked a remnant of liquor from his lips, Del wandered through rooms and hallways. He recalled parties he’d hosted here, with acquaintances like Burt Lancaster, Sonny and Cher, Natalie Wood. And who could forget the famous Jacks: Lemmon. Nicholson. Palance. All right here.

  He lived in a small mansion and, truth be told, seldom stepped foot into some of the rooms farthest from his bedroom. After all, he was a bachelor. He didn’t need to spend time in them, and he no longer entertained guests the way he had in the past. Ridiculous as it might sound, as the years rolled along, he’d forgotten to step foot all the way over there.

  Rocking the drink in his hand, he listened to the ice rattle and took another gulp. When he reached the far end of his house, his eyes fell upon a door to the left. A storage room. Talk about the old days—he hadn’t gone inside there since…when? Wow, the drink had started to make his mind fuzzy.

  Upon opening the door and flipping the light switch, he entered a large storage room filled with boxes stacked in rows. Del had stashed all of his old memorabilia in here, tokens he’d kept from various sets on which he’d worked, along with other miscellaneous items he couldn’t recall if he tried. Not that he was a hoarder. On the contrary, these belongings had come into his possession so fast, he’d needed to put them somewhere. At least they were already in boxes. Less packing required when he moved.

  Walking several feet into the room, he brushed his finger along the boxes he passed. Traces of dust
lay upon the tops of each row, but they were minimal. Nobody entered to stir things up.

  Lifting one box lid, he found scripts from the early seventies, projects he’d considered but declined. Some had entered production; others hadn’t. Why had he kept them? Maybe he was a pack rat after all. But perhaps they were worth something nowadays.

  Setting that box on the floor, he opened the next one in the stack. Here he found old letters—with four-cent postage stamps! Many were from friends who had lived in Manhattan, plus family members, long since deceased, with whom he’d kept in touch.

  From the bottom of the box, he retrieved a thick manila envelope. On its face, someone had scrawled his name in feminine handwriting. Turning it over, he unwound the red string of the envelope’s clasp and pulled out a screenplay bound with brass fasteners along the sides. Protected in the envelope, the brass had lost its sheen around the edges but remained in solid condition. The white paper had discolored with age and, Del swore, felt heavier with the passage of time.

  True to its era, someone had constructed the screenplay on a typewriter, then sandwiched it between two sheets of manila card stock. In the lower corner of each page, Del found a small, handwritten box with a fingerprint inside, large enough to resemble a thumb. Whoever made the print had used black ink, the type of ink pad one would have used with a rubber stamp.

  Clipped to the card stock, Del found a cover letter, which its writer appeared to have constructed on the same typewriter. He pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on.

  The letter was dated March 12, 1962. The same thumbprint appeared in its lower corner. Its signature block contained a name scrawled by hand in faded blue ink:

  Marilyn Monroe

  Del gasped. He remembered this! He’d forgotten about it as the decades elapsed, but now that he read her letter again, its familiarity returned:

  My Dearest Del,

  After filming The Prince and the Showgirl, I felt exhausted. As you know, I went on hiatus for nearly two years after making that film. Arthur and I had an opportunity to bond, to travel, to enjoy each other’s company, to escape the spotlight if only for a short time. As you can imagine, I couldn’t bear to escape for long! I sought to mature as an actress, to become an artist who would be taken seriously. Working with Laurence Olivier had left me feeling morose. I felt inadequate, childish and whimsical, rather than an equal, the woman who had produced that film with him.