“But it’s not a bad thing to have.”
“Of course it isn’t. But it also isn’t a source of joy.”
The chef’s arrival interrupted them. He confirmed their orders and prepared their meals.
Del lifted his cup and sipped his drink. The sake went down smooth and warm. He pondered what Felicia had said. Of course he couldn’t take anything with him when he died. He knew that. But he didn’t feel as though she had judged him; rather, when she spoke, she widened Del’s perspectives on life. He loved that about her. Del had lived a life of luxury; Felicia hadn’t. And yet, Felicia seemed more content than he was. It was one reason he wanted to know her more.
When the chef departed, Del invited Felicia to speak a blessing over their meal, then they began to partake. Del added a dash of soy sauce and savored each bite. He could live on Japanese cuisine alone.
“Speaking of the script deal,” Del said, “people seem to have their sights on Nora as the lead.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
Del’s mind returned to his lingering nervousness about the young actress, then remembered his conversation with Tristan, and the career coincidence that seemed too close for comfort.
He tried to wrap words around his thoughts in a way that wouldn’t come across as overbearing.
“They’re right,” Del replied, his hesitancy intact. “The part is ideal for her. But…”
Felicia squinted. Del recognized that look. She had entered scrutiny mode.
“But what?” she coaxed.
“I don’t know,” Del hedged, “maybe this project isn’t right for her. Not at this time, anyway.”
Felicia laid down her chopsticks and gave him her sole focus. “What do you mean, ‘at this time?’”
Should he say more? What if he was paranoid? He had no evidence to suggest Nora was in trouble. At this point, it was pure speculation.
“You know I’ve never been much of a religious guy. I’m not opposed to it, but my background—it hasn’t been part of my life since childhood. So I don’t know much about it. But you’re a minister, so you know about giving guidance and advice, right?”
“Here and there, the best I can.”
Wincing, Del sighed, still feeling foolish. “She told me she’s talking to a wellness coach. But I think there could be more to it than needing advice.”
“Such as?”
“Well, this is nothing more than guesswork, but do you ever get a sense that somebody is in trouble, even though, on the surface, all appears normal?”
“Sometimes. And you’re saying you sense that about Nora?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I’m not sure…” Del didn’t want to raise an alarm for no reason and didn’t want to make Nora look bad. But the past had planted in him seeds of fear about the future when it came to those rare individuals he treasured in his heart, and for whatever reason, Nora had captured a piece of his heart. “It’s a strange feeling I get about something she said.”
“What did she say? Are you allowed to talk about it?”
“I don’t think she would mind,” Del replied. “She mentioned the pressure she’s facing with all the media attention. That’s normal; we all go through it.” He paused. “It wasn’t so much what she said, but the—I guess you could call it melancholy—that I picked up underneath what she said. It’s nagged at me ever since.”
Felicia nodded. “Has she done anything unusual?”
“I haven’t known her long, so I don’t know what’s usual or unusual. The melancholy, though—”
“Yes?”
“It reminds me of Marilyn Monroe’s final months before her death. You could sense in her demeanor that something was off, but you couldn’t put your finger on what it was. You don’t know how to mention it, other than to ask if everything is okay. And of course they’ll tell you all is fine,” he explained. “But what concerns me further is that she’s talking anonymously to a wellness coach who doesn’t know what’s going on with her. What kind of advice could he be giving her? What if he steers her wrong?”
“Nora’s a smart woman. Do you think she would follow bad advice?”
“Perhaps not,” Del replied. “But there’s more to my suspicions about this coach.”
“Have you checked him out?”
“Yes, and he appears legitimate. As far as you can determine from a website, anyway.”
Felicia’s eyes narrowed. “But you suspect there’s more to the story?”
Grimacing, Del surrendered. “I think her coach is Tristan.”
“Her friend? The one we met at your house?”
“Yes.”
“Del—”
“Hear me out,” he said. “How long has she known the guy?”
“She said they met at a coffee shop a while back. Two months, maybe?”
“So there’s a lot she doesn’t know about him.”
“Tristan says he’s an entrepreneur. He runs an online business.”
“Entirely online,” hinted Del. “I asked him about his business the other day, and he shed more light on it. Get this: He’s a wellness coach.”
“What!”
“I kid you not. When I asked him more about it, he described the same approach Nora described, down to the detail.” Del leaned forward, willing her to believe him. “And he mentioned one of his most recent clients is a celebrity who keeps herself anonymous. Around the same time Nora mentions the whole thing on her side.”
Felicia’s countenance softened, and Del knew she’d begun to give merit to his suspicions.
“But the Internet is worldwide, Del. This coach could be anywhere.”
“His website says he’s based in L.A. It shows a picture of some guy who claims to be this coach, but for all we know, it could be a catalog photo. And as far as I’m aware, neither Tristan nor Nora has mentioned the coaching thing to each other. So think about it: She keeps it quiet because she’s embarrassed; meanwhile, he keeps his client interactions confidential, so he never talks about his business.”
“Nonetheless, it would be a substantial coincidence.”
“The world is much smaller than we tend to think.”
“And you haven’t mentioned this to either of them?”
He shook his head. “Tristan himself might even not suspect Nora is his client. Like I said, they probably haven’t talked about it. After all, they haven’t been friends long.” Del paused. “Tristan’s a nice kid, but would you want to take advice from him?”
“Where does he get his answers?”
“He says he doesn’t need any. It’s all a matter of affirmation or reaffirmation or whatever he considered it. Telling people what they want to hear and letting them believe they’ve taken a step forward. He looks at it as meeting a demand. I don’t think he intends to take advantage of anyone; if anything, he strikes me as naïve.”
Felicia shook her head. From the way she pursed her lips, Del read not only that she agreed with his suspicions, but now she felt the same awkwardness he did: the helpless feeling of sensing truth but possessing no proof.
“Maybe you should mention something to him, Del. Keep it casual. No need to confront him.”
“I agree.”
They returned to their meal, which, by now, had cooled to lukewarm. Nevertheless, Del held no regrets about focusing on the discussion at hand. Whether his misgivings were accurate or faulty, at least he had company.
“How’s the home search coming along?” Felicia asked.
“Ugh, I haven’t had a chance to research. Things got busy, as you know. At least we wrote the extra months into the contract for me to rent the house in the meantime.” What he wouldn’t have given to take back his decision to move. He finally heeds his accountant’s advice, and now this happens. Of all the times for a home to sell with lightning speed! “This script deal would have enabled me to keep my home for the rest of my life. I wish I hadn’t sold it.”
“Has the
sale closed yet?”
“Not yet.”
Felicia regarded him a moment, then said, “Would the buyer be willing to reconsider?”
Del hadn’t thought of that. It was worth a try.
CHAPTER 54
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Del retrieved his real estate file from the desk drawer in his study. The buyer, in an apparent attempt to stroke his own ego, had passed along his personal contact information in case celebrity Del Corwyn ever wanted to chat.
And today, Del Corwyn wanted to indulge him.
Jonas Fricke.
The guy’s business card was in English, but it contained an address in Switzerland. Del checked the clock. How many hours ahead would that be? Ten or eleven? It should be late afternoon over there. And the man had handwritten his personal cell phone number.
Skipping his morning jog, which Del hated to do, he dialed the number. Considering the significant distance between continents, the call took longer than usual to connect and Del noticed a slight difference in the sound quality as it rang. He increased the volume a notch and waited.
“Jonas Fricke.” A distinct German accent.
“Mr. Fricke!” he began. Perhaps formality would stroke the man’s ego. Small price to pay for Del to get his home back. “Del Corwyn here. You gave me your phone number. Hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
“No, Mr. Corwyn. Is something wrong with the house?” For a second language, Jonas Fricke spoke excellent English. Then again, he conducted business around the world.
Del offered a hearty chortle in response. “No, no. All is fine. In fact, I have excellent news regarding the home.”
“Excellent news?”
“You’re about to make an immediate profit on your new home, sir! Quite an investment.”
Silence, followed by curiosity in Fricke’s voice. “A profit? How so?”
“You’re a businessman, Mr. Fricke, so I’ll cut to the chase. This will sound strange, but I’d like to buy back my home.”
“You—come again, please?”
“And I’ll offer you ten percent more than what you paid for it.” Del could sign a script deal tomorrow if necessary.
Fricke hesitated. “Ten percent?”
Wasn’t that sufficient? “Fine, make it twenty.”
“Why this offer, Mr. Corwyn?”
“I’ve had a change of heart. The truth is, I never wanted to move in the first place, so I gave it some additional thought.”
“According to what I’ve read, you had some excellent news of your own recently, too.”
“Yes, that’s correct. So you can understand why a relocation wouldn’t be feasible at this time.”
“But you built extra months into the contract to rent the home. I am willing to extend that agreement, if you wish. I will not need to make use of the home immediately.”
Del clucked his tongue and wondered how straightforward he should be. He was willing to bargain, and he wanted his home back, but he didn’t want to be a chump.
“That’s generous of you, Mr. Fricke. But as reality has settled in, I’ve realized—well, Los Angeles is my home, and—”
“There are plenty of homes in that city, Mr. Corwyn. I’m sure you could find one at the price you’re willing to pay.”
“Yes, but—” Del grunted to himself. This wasn’t working. He needed to change tactics. Lay down his pride and be honest. “It’s my home, Mr. Fricke. You can understand that, as one human being to another.” Del paused. Then, to his own dismay, he softened his voice to what sounded like a prayer. “Please, Mr. Fricke.”
Del heard nothing on the other end of the line and, for a moment, wondered if their connection had dropped. The silence brought ripples of anxiety. Then Jonas Fricke answered.
“I can appreciate your predicament, Mr. Corwyn—”
A wave of relief. “I’d hoped you might.”
“—but I cannot sell your home to you.”
No, no, NO!
“Surely you can understand where I’m coming from, Mr. Fricke.”
“Indeed I can, Mr. Corwyn. But, you see, selling the home at this time would not be a wise step.”
“Not to be presumptuous, but may I ask why not? If you don’t mind, that is.”
“As it turns out, I have made a choice investment, albeit an accidental one. Your house, Mr. Corwyn, is now worth much more than it was when I purchased it. I keep track of the news in America. Your home was where the script by Marilyn Monroe was discovered. That means your home—my home—is now historic. A collector’s item, if you will. You wouldn’t sell a rare coin before its time, would you?”
“No, of course not, but…”
“This home is now, shall we say, a rare coin.”
Of course. The bragging rights. The man had bought a celebrity’s home as a status symbol—and had stumbled upon an even greater status than he could have dreamed.
Jonas Fricke had acquired another tale to share over cocktails. Meanwhile, Del’s home—and the memories he cherished within in—was slipping from his grasp. It wasn’t over, though. Not yet. Del still had one fingernail embedded in it.
A tear formed in his eye, but he refused to let Fricke hear him weep. Not a chance. Nevertheless, Del’s voice caught when he spoke again.
“Please, Mr. Fricke. I’m—” He sucked in his breath and cast aside his caution. “I’m begging you.”
A pause. Del had reached the man’s heart.
Or so he thought.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Corwyn.”
Del ended the call in a gracious manner, then slammed the cell phone onto the sale contract.
With his elbows on the table, he planted his face in his hands. The tear he’d felt earlier pooled and trickled from the corner of his eye.
CHAPTER 55
ONE O’CLOCK in the morning.
Once again, sleep eluded her.
Nora scrolled through her Twitter feed. The Academy Awards ceremony was two weeks away and, though she hadn’t thought it possible, she looked like an even tighter lock to win the trophy. At least she had that going for her. To her astonishment, the buzz about her had increased further.
So had the buzz about her notorious photo. The respectable outlets, like the one on which she’d first discovered the photo, continued to censor it. Other outlets bore all. Nora was humiliated.
One mistake. One drunken night in college, and now this fraternity prick—whoever he was—felt entitled to her, along with the rest of the world.
All she’d wanted was acceptance.
Setting her phone aside, Nora rubbed her eyes, which felt heavy and raw. She couldn’t tolerate another night without sleep. Although she began each night attempting to doze off without the aid of medication, she’d given up the fight a week ago.
Disheartened at the idea of putting sleeping pills into her body on a regular basis, she padded to the bathroom and retrieved the familiar package from the medicine cabinet.
Only a few left. She’d need to stop by the drugstore.
In the meantime, she took a tablet and washed it down with a glass of water.
Then she crawled into bed, pulled a sheet over her head, and hoped to escape the torment of her heart for the next several hours.
CHAPTER 56
ONCE REALITY, in the embodiment of Jonas Fricke, slapped Del in the face, he knew he’d never keep his home. Though he wouldn’t need to evacuate the premises for several months, he’d begun packing possessions in boxes, those treasured memories on which he’d want to keep a close eye. The movers would pack the rest.
Not that he’d found a home to move into.
Del browsed a list of houses on the market along the southeastern coast of Florida, narrowing his search to Jupiter Island, Golden Beach, and other high-end areas. The houses were impressive, but he didn’t want to live in them. His heart resided here.
As he searched, he listened to an old David Rose album, despite the bittersweet memories it brought. He had set the album to repeat, and its title track
, “The Stripper,” began again. A tune about a working woman in the midst of a tease. What a precise embodiment of Marilyn Monroe. While she had viewed herself in an artistic light, countless others saw nothing more than her body.
When his cell phone chirped, Del reduced the volume of the music and answered.
“Del! Max Yeager here.”
Another legendary director. No doubt about it: Del Corwyn was the man of the hour. Even interest in his old films had skyrocketed, both in sales and on-demand streaming. Directors and producers had begun to pursue him with projects. Minor parts, but stepping stones nonetheless. He needed to wade with caution.
“Listen, Del, I’m lining up a film that you’d be great for. A small role, but a choice one. We’ve scheduled production for early next year. I’d be thrilled if you’d consider.”
Del was flattered. “Of course, Max. Send me the script and I’ll take a look.”
“Good deal. Oh, hey, while I have you on the phone, what’s the latest on the Marilyn project? How close are you to a deal?”
“We’re still considering offers. Regardless of how it turns out, though, I’m interested in your film role.”
A pause on the other end of the line. “Yeah…sure, Del. Let’s see how the Marilyn project goes, then we can talk. How’s that sound?”
Del’s instinct reverted to skepticism. He decided to save face for himself.
“Sounds good, Max. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Yeah. Keep me updated on the status.”
“Will do, Ma—”
Del heard his phone beep, as though the director couldn’t wait to end the call. Motionless, Del stared at the phone in his hand.
The hesitation in Max Yeager’s responses lingered in Del’s gut. That familiar pause. It made Del nervous. Come to think of it, whenever conversations veered toward a potential resurgence for Del’s career, he had noticed a pattern: the uncomfortable pause, followed by evasion and noncommittal.
Del’s mind continued to churn. The whole purpose behind a deal should be to honor his friend’s memory. He considered the screenplay’s content, and all it revealed about her. It ran contrary to how most people perceived her—in that respect, the buzz was accurate. According to her letter to Del, when she put the script into his care, she sought protection from others. Was it possible she sought, in fact, protection from herself? Was it possible that, by putting the script into Del’s hands, it would prevent Marilyn Monroe from allowing her personal torment to become an event for individuals to salivate over? To prohibit audiences from munching on hot-buttered popcorn and watching as her heart rent before them on the silver screen?
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