Would selling this piece of her honor her memory, or had the prospect become all about Del Corwyn? Would the sale enhance her memory or damage it?
Del’s mind churned faster. He replayed his phone conversation with Jonas Fricke. Even the sale of Del’s home had morphed into intrigue about the starlet. Someone she’d never met schemed to profit from her life—or, rather, her death—all these years later.
As Del considered these things, a realization hit him.
Del Corwyn wasn’t on the verge of a career comeback.
And he never would be.
All this media attention, all the pandering, all the ego strokes—they didn’t want Del Corwyn. They wanted something in Del Corwyn’s possession, and they needed to go through him to get it.
Del felt like a battered suitcase. Bang him around, drag him along the street, as long as it didn’t affect the money generator.
Was this how Marilyn Monroe had felt?
Once this script deal occurred, these people would relegate Del to obscurity once again. No doubt, he could line up a role for himself in the Marilyn project as a contractual provision when he sold the rights, but after that, he would fade from the spotlight as quickly as he’d re-emerged into it. And afterward, he would never resurface again.
Nobody gets a third comeback.
These people had no use for a guy of his nature, no matter how young he felt, regardless of how he carried himself. No rationalization, no fitness level, no activity on Twitter, no young woman would alter that truth.
Suppose he portrayed a role in the Marilyn film. Suppose Bernard Schulman was correct and Del won an Oscar. What was next for a guy who was almost eighty? A string of roles as a leading man?
Del Corwyn, the hottest property in Hollywood.
These people didn’t want Del. They wanted something only he could deliver. They would use him until they had what they wanted, then they would disappear. His phone would quit ringing. His contacts would hide in alleged meetings like they did a few months ago. Del’s calls would go unanswered and unreturned.
Then again, what if he was wrong? What if he defied the odds and became a legend in his own right?
Sure, he needed them. But they needed him, too.
And he couldn’t let go. Not now.
Del caught himself rotating his cell phone in his hand, around and around, as he contemplated.
Then he laid the phone on his desk and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 57
FELICIA’S OFFICE WASN’T DESIGNED to impress. It was smaller than any room in Del Corwyn’s house, with the exception of his bathrooms—and even those were close to it in size. A far cry from the offices and buildings that had opened to him over the course of his career. And yet, Del felt at peace here.
Her desk sat beside a small window at one end of the room, its surface tidy with a couple of open books and a computer that hummed. At the other end of the room, he noticed a small coffee table with a sofa and two living room chairs, which Del assumed she used for counseling. Potted plants rounded out the décor. On the wall hung a replicated painting that depicted Jesus as a shepherd, as well as two other historical paintings which, to Del, appeared religious in nature. A tasteful, decorative cross hung behind her desk.
The church itself was small and tucked away like a piece of yesteryear. Del guessed it had been built in the 1950s, if not earlier.
Maple bookshelves lined the walls. Upon arriving here, Del had scanned the shelves and found them filled with theological books and various copies of the Bible, some translations commonplace, others more obscure. As a child, he’d memorized the books of the Bible during Sunday school classes, and recognized their names as he’d browsed centuries’ worth of commentary on Felicia’s shelves. She seemed to have at least three volumes of commentary for each book of the Bible.
“Did you have a conversation with the home buyer?” she asked.
Sitting across from her at the desk now, Del crossed one leg over the other and sucked air. “I did.”
“And?”
“No dice. It seems the buyer is thrilled to own the home where a piece of Hollywood history was uncovered.”
Felicia regarded him a moment, and Del could see in her eyes that her heart reached out toward his.
“I’m sorry, Del. I know how much you wanted to remain there.”
“It was worth a try, right? Anyway, it means I need to kick my home search into high gear.” Del clasped his hands around his knee. “It’s not like I couldn’t buy another home in California, but I can’t buy the memories of the people who have come and gone. And those memories live in my home.” He hesitated, sensing his vulnerability on the rise, then sighed. “It’s all I have, Felicia. My home—it’s all I have.”
“It sounds as if Del Corwyn has done some soul searching.”
Is that what it was? “The last month has been a rollercoaster.”
“I think your sensitive side is sweet.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Maybe it’s an opportunity for a fresh start, a change in environment. A chance to make new memories.”
No, Del intuited, this sale wasn’t the sole reason he lacked happiness.
“It’s not just the house, though,” he said.
“You mean your career? Making all things new?”
“Here I am, with my pick of deals. And believe me, they are exquisite. One in particular—have you heard of Bernard Schulman? He offered me a plum role in the film, too.” Del marveled at the thought, which grew more tantalizing by the day. “It’s better than I would have imagined.”
Felicia tilted her head, nodded.
“Have you ever faced something extraordinary,” Del continued, “something you’ve waited decades for, and when it finally comes, it’s…flat?”
Felicia compressed her lips. “Flat?”
“As if your heart isn’t in it. Or perhaps not your whole heart,” he said. “Why am I not enjoying this as much as I thought I would? Everyone wants a piece of me these days.”
“I can empathize, Del. For most people you’re talking to, this is part of their news cycle, something that could make a historic mark on the industry in which they work. But for you, it’s greater than that. This holds a sentimental aspect for you.”
“Sentimental. Maybe that’s it.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. As Del allowed his mind to stroll along that course of thought, another sinking feeling emerged in his heart. “Have you ever thought you had everything you could ever want, then discovered you have nothing? Not in a literal sense, but you take another look around your life with new perspective, and suddenly, much of it strikes you as meaningless?”
“And this is how you feel?”
This was difficult. Del wasn’t accustomed to talking to anybody this way, and especially not a woman of romantic interest. But he found Felicia refreshing, a trustworthy soul. He wanted to confide in her his latest realization that his cohorts in Hollywood sought him for the treasure in his hands, not for who he was as an artist. But he wasn’t ready to admit that to anybody else.
“I’m not sure how I feel about it,” Del replied. “On second thought, my comment was ridiculous. Forget I mentioned it, okay? Please.”
Felicia appraised him, then relaxed in her chair and appeared resigned to what she would say next. “What if this isn’t about signing paperwork for this particular project? Have you considered that possibility?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you fear what will come after you strike a deal.” She paused. “Or maybe you fear what won’t come next.”
Dammit, how did she do that? The woman could shoot an arrow at his doubts and hit the bulls-eye, the place he felt most susceptible, and pierce it.
When Del didn’t reply, Felicia gave him a tentative glance, then asked, “Have you ever considered how brief this life is, and what happens when this life is over?”
“You mean eternity?”
“Eternity is the biggest part of it. But also the i
mpact you make today, which will echo after your life ends.”
“I can’t say I’ve thought much about after I’m gone. Isn’t life as we know it enough of a treadmill?” It seemed that way to Del. All the stress, the worry, the strict adherence to his health habits. On occasion, Del wondered if those efforts were nothing more than subconscious attempts to prolong his life. And when his life needed to end, he didn’t want friends and acquaintances showing up at his funeral, speaking flattering words about his career while knowing, in reality, Del Corwyn had ended up a disappointment.
Felicia tapped her fingernails on the desk, three decisive raps to punctuate her thoughts, then arose from her chair. Grabbing her purse from the bottom drawer, she made her way to the door. A confused Del followed her with his eyes.
“Come with me,” she said.
“Now? Where are we going?”
“Trust me. You’ll see.”
Caught off guard, Del didn’t move, unsure of what he was about to step into.
“What’s the matter, Del?” Felicia winked at him. “Did you have something more critical on your calendar than sitting here in my office, shooting the breeze?”
CHAPTER 58
UPON STEPPING OUT of the elevator, Felicia mouthed hello to a staff member as she and Del walked past a nurses’ station. Felicia seemed to know her way around the maze of color-coded, alphanumeric wings. In fact, many people who worked here, from nurses to maintenance workers to cafeteria employees, knew her by name.
Del counted patient rooms as he followed her down a corridor.
Once he discovered she had driven him to a hospital—and recovered from the false notion that she was luring him to a psychiatrist’s office there—wariness settled in. Now Del felt claustrophobic, careful not to touch any surfaces. He could envision himself lying sick in bed tomorrow. He caught himself trying to cover his nose and mouth, and, as a safety precaution, was on the lookout for hand sanitizer. Selfish as it sounded, he hated being around sick people. Perhaps it went back to the few films he’d shot overseas, where he’d feared developing an infection and getting stuck in a foreign hospital, where a third-world doctor would slice him open and start poking around his organs, on the search for solutions.
White institutional walls scared the hell out of him. And he detested hospitals. The pungency of disinfectant reminded him of death. Too many friends and acquaintances had ended up in places like this, more recently due to age issues, but long ago, due to drug overdoses and other tragedies.
Felicia must have visited this patient before. When she found the room number she was looking for, she gave a respectful knock before entering the room. The door was open.
The first thing Del noticed were the closed blinds and the darkness which enshrouded the patient’s room, as if when he walked past the threshold, he’d entered an alternate universe. He pictured the place receiving visits from death each night at the stroke of midnight. A grinning skeleton, cloaked in black and ax in hand, would tiptoe inside, scope out the room, and plan its eventual smothering of whoever lay inside. The vision brought goose bumps to Del’s whole body.
When he and Felicia reached the bed, Del discovered a bony man. He might have been asleep, but Del wasn’t positive. As far as Del could tell, they were the same age, but the man in the bed appeared frail and weak, his breaths labored, his flesh hoary and sick. Tubes everywhere—face, arms, you name it. Wires. A machine monitoring his pulse. And the plastic bag against which Del almost brushed his arm—was that urine inside? This patient looked like death personified. Del wanted to haul ass out of there.
But then, he took another look at the man and felt pity.
Del had portrayed a dying character once, in a scene much like this, but it couldn’t have equipped him for what he saw today. Though he’d done due diligence to prepare for that part, as he looked at this patient before him, Del doubted he had done the role justice. He felt guilty for not doubling his research efforts back then, if only out of respect.
Leaning over the patient’s shoulder, Felicia whispered into his ear. “Mr. Carter, are you awake? It’s Pastor Whitby.”
The man’s eyes fluttered open. He wasn’t asleep after all, just worn down to the bone. He sat up, alert, but quite weak. Del got the impression even a short conversation would exhaust him.
Felicia offered a compassionate smile and patted the man’s arm. A mother’s touch. “How do you feel, Mr. Carter?”
He nodded, mouthed something but couldn’t muster the words. Del saw one corner of the man’s mouth expand a smidgen—an attempt at a smile—and witnessed a fresh dose of life rush into his eyes. Did this man receive many visitors? How many years of heartache had he faced?
“You’re not giving those nurses too much trouble, are you?” Felicia teased.
Another wisp of a smile. He responded with a labored, near imperceptible, shake of his head, his eyes glued to hers.
“Good. I’m glad to hear you’re behaving yourself,” she added with a wink. Then she turned to Del. “I’ve brought a visitor. This is a friend of mine, Del Corwyn.”
With what looked like much effort, the man angled his head toward Del, a quizzical expression on his face, followed by a labored smile when the fullness of Del’s identity registered in his mind.
“Mr. Carter is a member of my congregation.” Felicia shot Del a knowing grin. “He once told me The Changing Tides is his favorite film of all time.”
Suddenly, Del felt uncomfortable, though he couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t a privacy concern; rather, his fame felt inappropriate for this moment, a mismatch, unworthy to enter the hospital room of what appeared to be a dying man.
The man managed to lift his hand, albeit a mere inch from the bed. An intentional movement nonetheless. Del wondered why, and then realized it was an effort at a handshake. Easing closer to the bed, Del gave the man’s hand a gentle pump. When he caught sight of the underside of the man’s arm, he noticed thick, purple veins beneath the pasty skin.
Del hesitated. What did Felicia expect him to say next?
“It’s always nice to meet someone who enjoyed that film,” he offered. Was he handling this the right way? With a tentative glance at Felicia, Del asked the man, “What do you do for a living?”
Felicia gave the patient a tender pat on the shoulder and answered on his behalf. “Mr. Carter taught advanced mathematics at several universities across the country. He retired from UCLA a few years ago. You saw a lot of change in the culture over the years, didn’t you, Mr. Carter?”
The man attempted to nod. As he warmed up to Del, Del could have sworn a dim radiance spread across the man’s face.
Del tried to picture himself ten years from now and grew anxious at the thought. Lying in a hospital bed wasn’t on his bucket list. Then again, he doubted it was on Mr. Carter’s, either.
Del wasn’t heartless, but he couldn’t wait to wrap up this visit and escape the room.
A man Del’s own age, disintegrating in a hospital bed, where any given breath could be his last. Del fought to maintain a straight face, but within his soul, he panicked.
CHAPTER 59
DEL STARTLED at the electronic tone announcing the elevator had arrived. At the parting of the doors, he and Felicia entered the empty compartment. A push of the button for the lobby and they began their descent. Felicia’s smile had faded as soon as they departed the patient’s room, her brow now knit in concentration.
Del couldn’t shake the image of the man in the bed. Or the realization that Del himself could end up in a bed like that any one of these days. Is that how it happens? In one moment, a screw comes loose, you break down, and life as you know it drains from your hands?
He struggled to locate his voice which, at first, sounded raw. He cleared his throat.
“What’s the matter with that man in the hospital room?” As soon as he asked, he felt a prick in his heart. That man has a name, Del. “Mr. Carter, that is. He didn’t look good. Will he recover?”
“The
doctors have given him six weeks.”
“Six weeks to recover?”
“Six weeks to live, Del.”
He was hoping his initial prognosis had been incorrect, but to his dismay, he’d proven spot-on. Del couldn’t fathom living his life knowing that, in six weeks’ time, it would come to an end.
The elevator jolted to a stop and the doors parted. He and Felicia entered an atrium, where greenery surrounded a fountain. Del listened to the splashes of water as it landed on the surface of the small reservoir. Whenever he passed a fountain, he wondered what caused the familiar tang in its scent. Algae, perhaps?
On the other side of the fountain, tables and benches dotted the area around a small café cart, where individuals dined on boxed lunches, snacks, and gourmet coffee drinks. Sunlight gleamed through the skylight overhead.
Del glimpsed Felicia from the corner of his eye.
“How did Mr. Carter find out he was ill?”
Felicia stared straight ahead, past the atrium and into the small lobby on the other side, en route to the parking lot.
“He’s a widower and loves to garden,” she replied. “Two weeks ago, while he was manicuring his plants, he fainted. Never sensed anything wrong before that. A neighbor found him unconscious in his backyard. When she let her dog out, she heard an unusual amount of barking and headed outside to see what was wrong. If the paramedics hadn’t arrived when they did, he might not be alive today.”
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