Beautiful Mess

by Herrick, John

  Nora didn’t reply. Instead, she masked the pain with the façade she’d fashioned so well. She glanced at Del and allowed the Hollywood gleam she’d perfected to overtake her countenance, hoping the overhead lights didn’t reveal the sheen upon the moist surface of her eyes.

  CHAPTER 62

  WHEN DEL AWOKE the next morning, he simmered. The events of recent days had converged in a pot of anger.

  Anger at how he had treated Felicia the day they parted ways. Anger at letting her go, forfeiting the chance to win her back. Anger regarding the sale of his home.

  Anger at the worthlessness Nora must have felt after her loss.

  He knew that feeling all too well after his own loss and humiliation in 1976. After last night’s ceremony, Nora had chosen to drown the numbness in alcohol, and Del had allowed her to do so, doing his best to monitor her intake, making sure she arrived home in one piece. After all, who was he to judge her? And what was he supposed to do, offer insight or provide the answers? He’d managed to damage his own life by losing the only woman with whom he had ever fallen in love.

  Then Del’s mind pivoted to Tristan. Nora would turn to him—or his alter ego—wouldn’t she? And that kid had no more answers than the local bartender. Another point of anger for Del before he climbed out of bed. In fact, fair or not, Tristan now emerged as the prime target of Del’s fury.

  When Del returned from his morning jog and his irritation hadn’t subsided, he resolved to take action. He’d intended to take the reins in this situation for a while.

  Grabbing his cell phone from the kitchen counter, he opened his text-messaging app, scrolled through his contacts, clicked Tristan’s name, and set his index finger in motion.

  I need you to stop by my house.

  Impatient, tapping the phone in his palm, Del waited as the message beamed through space. One minute later, the device vibrated in his grip. He read Tristan’s reply.

  Now???

  Yes. Right now. My house.

  Another minute passed, then came Tristan’s reply.

  Be there in 30.

  Del tossed the phone onto the kitchen counter and headed upstairs for a quick shower before his visitor showed up.

  CHAPTER 63

  WHEN TRISTAN ARRIVED, Del led him to the patio, where their foursome had eaten dinner a while back. The two men settled into the patio furniture and eyed each other with curiosity. Del’s thoughts scrambled in his brain, so he took a moment to weigh his words.

  “Is everything okay, Del? You seem less chill today. Your text message was kinda freaky, but you look fine.”

  Del wasn’t in the mood to fool around. He locked eyes with the wellness guru, who looked as if he’d stepped off of a yellow school bus five years ago.

  “I don’t know how to be tactful with this,” Del said, “so I’ll be blunt.”

  “Okay…”

  “Your celebrity client? The one you mentioned when we talked last month?”

  “Yeah? What about her?”

  Del’s heart hammered. “I know who she is. I think I do, at least.”

  Tristan snickered in doubt. “And who do you think it is?”

  “It’s Nora.”

  Tristan sighed. “Del—”

  Del held out the palm of his hand to halt Tristan in midsentence. “Hold on. Hear me out.”

  The guru folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”

  “Nora mentioned she’s been talking to a wellness coach.”

  “Lots of people do that. Trust me. My bank account isn’t hurting.”

  “She found the business card in a coffee shop she frequents.”

  Del caught a change in the way Tristan glared at him. Something in Tristan’s eyes retreated, yet he tried to maintain a straight face.

  “And you think it’s me, huh?”

  “Do you leave cards in coffee shops?”

  “I leave cards everywhere.”

  “I visited the coach’s website. The man looks like he could be a model,” Del said. “The stock-photo variety.”

  Tristan shifted in his seat. As Del expected, this had begun to hit home.

  Del set his hands flat upon the iron table’s meshed surface and leaned in for the final blow. “You’re Russell Merritt.”

  His mouth agape, Tristan slumped against the back of his chair, a clear indication he’d never fathomed his client’s identity. Without a sound, his lips went into motion, as though he were trying calculate sales tax on the price of a washing machine. If the situation weren’t serious, Del would have found the response comical.

  “I take it this surprises you?”

  “Shit, Del, how was I supposed to know?”

  “You weren’t, and that was Nora’s intention. But now, you and I both know.” Del let loose a decisive huff. “You need to put an end to it, Tristan. Tell her you’re her coach.”

  Tristan, still in shock, shook his head. “Tell her? Are you crazy?”

  “You’re dating her, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah…”

  “So if you care about her, and if you have any conscience at all, you owe it to her to come clean.” Del leaned closer, tried to speak to him as one brother to another. “She’s got a tender heart, Tristan. Beneath the confident exterior, she’s trying to find her way through life, and she doesn’t deserve to have one more person taking advantage of her.”

  “Hold on, Del. Who are you to lecture me? You’ve got a reputation yourself. With all the younger women you date, you’re a player just like the rest of us. I mean, come on—like you haven’t been taking advantage of your friendship with Marilyn Monroe to make a buck! Gimme a break.”

  “That’s not what’s going on with the script—”

  “Like hell it’s not! You know damn well that’s what’s going on with the script! So don’t lecture me about taking the moral high ground.”

  Del smoldered. He wasn’t used to anyone challenging him like this, and he sure didn’t want to swallow it from someone half his age, who had half the life experience. “I’m preserving Marilyn’s memory!”

  “You’re preserving your own ass, Del! Your career was drowning, and you found yourself a lifeline! Lucky break, huh?”

  Del sealed his lips and counted to ten. He wanted to explode at Tristan and defend himself the best he could, but the script was a tangential issue. He needed to refocus this conversation.

  “Look, Tristan, I’m not a perfect guy. I never claimed to be. But this isn’t about a screenplay. This is about Nora, and I’m afraid she could be in a downward spiral. I’m trying to protect her.”

  Drawing his crossed arms even tighter against his chest, Tristan continued to fume. He shook his head.

  Del toned down his volume and, forcing a calmer approach, implored Tristan.

  “I don’t believe you meant any harm. There’s no way you could have known.” Del believed that. He caught Tristan’s eyes and wouldn’t release contact. “Suppose a client described this situation to you, the one we’re in right now. What would you tell that client to do?” Del paused for a beat, allowed the question to linger in Tristan’s mind, then added, “For Nora’s sake, Tristan.”

  Tristan bit the inside of his cheek and cast a wary glance at Del. Then, with a sigh, he rubbed his temples.

  “Fine, fine. You’re right,” Tristan relented, his voice resigned. “I’ll do it. But let me pick the time.”

  Relieved, Del settled back into his chair. “Good man.”

  “Whatever. Thanks to you, I’m becoming too fucking honest.”

  “I think she’d appreciate someone like that in her life.”

  “Yeah, I think so, too.” With that, Tristan rose from the table, the iron legs of his chair scraping against the patio’s brick surface. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my work,” he said, a glint in his eye. “People to talk to, lives to improve.”

  CHAPTER 64

  TWO DAYS AFTER her Oscar loss, Nora still felt depressed. She wished she could say rejection di
dn’t disturb her, but for Nora Jumelle—Nora Tasmyn—it personified the pieces of her life that rubbed her heart raw.

  Her search would never end. Nora was a misfit in life and she knew it.

  Childhood was so long ago. Why did she still allow people to screw with her head and emotions?

  She should be happy with her success in life, but truth be told, Nora didn’t have a clue whether she was happy or not.

  She hadn’t bothered to change out of her pajamas that day. Instead, she curled up on the floor against the leather sofa, her living room dim aside from the sunlight that brought a glow to the curtains. If anyone saw her in this state, she’d feel embarrassed.

  No risk of that happening, though. She’d drawn the curtains and nobody else was in the house. This was one vision that wouldn’t go viral.

  The alcohol provided a pleasant buzz and soothed the ache.

  At a few minutes past eleven o’clock, Nora lifted the coffee mug to her mouth and gulped her fourth helping of wine. Lunchtime approached and her empty stomach growled, but her motivation to eat had vanished.

  She’d given her security guard a few days off. For once, she craved complete privacy.

  She felt so exhausted. Nora longed to crawl back into bed and escape the weariness. Escape the sinking sensation. Escape the sense of losing control over her own life. She swore the bags under her eyes brought physical pressure to her face, yet she couldn’t even fall asleep to rid herself of them. Her insomnia continued to intensify.

  Then it occurred to her.

  The sleeping pills.

  She’d left them on her coffee table. She eyed the little packet.

  Nora had taken one last night and fallen asleep on the floor in front of the television.

  Drowsy from the alcohol, she thunked her mug on the table beside the near-empty bottle of Pinot Noir and reached for the pills. She took one in her hand, the sweat of her palm moistening it.

  On second thought, she’d double the dosage. As of late, her body seemed to have built up a resistance to the medication. Nora didn’t want any hiccups along the way to her escape. She deserved something to go right for her today, didn’t she? Maybe tomorrow this cloud would dissipate.

  Popping the extra dose into her mouth, she washed it down with the wine that remained in her mug, then wobbled over to the staircase. Dizzy from the effort, she paused to regain her bearings, then ascended the stairs, her footsteps heavy. She stumbled into her bedroom and collapsed onto her bed, where she curled on top of the comforter.

  Nora breathed deep and allowed her muscles to go limp. Within a few minutes, magnificent wooziness settled in. She smiled with relief.

  Then pictured herself lying on the beach in Monaco.

  CHAPTER 65

  TRISTAN COULDN’T SHAKE Del’s words from his mind.

  Ever since their last conversation, each time Tristan interacted with a client, he thought of Nora and how they’d stumbled into their coincidence. Del was right. Tristan couldn’t deny it, regardless of how he wanted to rationalize the situation. If Tristan wanted to dance around technicalities, he could point out that he didn’t know with one-hundred-percent accuracy that Nora was his client. At the same time, however, he cared about her, and if she was open to the possibility, Tristan could envision a future together. Like Del suggested, maybe she was walking through a dark season and hadn’t let on. Tristan didn’t want to take advantage of her or, worse, put her at risk.

  Come to think of it, Russell Merritt hadn’t heard from his celebrity client in more than a week.

  Wrapping up a message to someone else, Tristan grabbed his cell phone and speed-dialed Nora’s number. After several rings, she picked up. He turned on his speakerphone and started talking before she had a chance to utter hello.

  “Nora, it’s me. I need to talk to you about something, if it’s okay.”

  “Whooziss?”

  Tristan detected a slur in her voice. She sounded tired. And why did she ask who had phoned her? Who doesn’t read their caller ID?

  “It’s Tristan.”

  “Hi Triztannn…”

  She sounded as though he’d awakened her in the middle of the night. Tristan checked the clock. Noon. She might have slept in.

  Yet something didn’t seem right.

  “Nora, I need to admit something to you—” On second thought, this news should come in person. “Can I stop by in a while? You sound like you’re just getting up, but how does an hour from now sound?”

  “Mmmm.”

  He tried to decipher her reply. “Are you at home?”

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Faint. Eerie. Prolonged.

  How was he supposed to reply to that? Tristan rubbed his eyes with the fingers of his free hand. “So it’s okay to stop by?”

  No reply.

  “Nora? Hello?”

  No reply.

  Tristan looked at the screen on his phone. The connection was still intact. If she was listening, why wasn’t she replying to him?

  He heard a thunk. It sounded she had dropped her phone. On the carpeted floor, maybe?

  His stomach muscles clenched. He held the phone closer.

  “Nora? Are you there?” Now he caught himself jostling his knee. His jaw tensed. “Nora, talk to me. Please.”

  No response.

  Tristan stared at his phone. She still hadn’t disconnected. The call time, oblivious to whatever was happening, ticked off each second as if everything was normal—which, Tristan had grown convinced, everything was not.

  Another attempt to gain her attention by saying her name. He shook his phone and willed her to reply, but heard nothing except the subdued buzz, which indicated the call remained in progress.

  Tristan disconnected.

  But he couldn’t release the phone from his grip. Frustrated, he tapped it against one knee.

  No doubt about it. Something was wrong.

  Now both knees jostled. Whatever was going on with Nora, it scared the hell out of him. But what was he supposed to do about it? Call 911, tell them to knock on the door and demand to see an individual who had fallen asleep?

  Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?

  I don’t know if one exists…

  Sir, this number is reserved for emergencies only.

  Who else could he call?

  His brain felt cluttered. Why does your mind lose its focus when you need it most?

  He massaged his temples. Why couldn’t he think of a solution?

  Come on! Think, Tristan, think! You’re a wellness coach, for fuck’s sake!

  Several seconds passed. Desperation morphed into panic.

  Then it hit him.

  That friend of Del’s, the one he’d met that night at Del’s house! She was a minister. She would know how to handle these circumstances, wouldn’t she? People must come to her about everything.

  She’d given him her phone number in case he ever wanted to talk about life. He’d entered it into his cell phone out of habit, with no intention of calling. He wasn’t a religious person.

  What was her name? He’d recognized it, but it wasn’t common. He sorted his contacts by first name. As he scrolled through the list, he muttered under his breath, trying to piece together the syllables of her name.

  Delia? Francesca? Something along those lines. The first letter was somewhere near the beginning of the alphabet.

  Shit. The pressure mounted. Tristan felt time press in and suffocate him.

  Fall…feel…fill… How did her name start?

  He found it.

  Felicia! That was it. Felicia Whitby.

  As soon as she picked up, Tristan switched the phone to speaker mode and started putting on his sneakers.

  “Felicia! It’s Tristan, Nora Jumelle’s friend, the one you met at Del’s house.”

  “Of course! How are you?”

  “Something’s wrong with Nora. I don’t have time to explain, but she sounded weird on the phone and then she stopped talking. I think she dropped the phone. I don’t even know if
she’s conscious, so I’m heading over to her house to make sure she’s okay. Can you meet me there? Bring Del too. He lives close by. Maybe she’ll respond to him.”

  He bolted toward his front door and fingered through his keys. Removing the phone from speaker mode, he held it to his ear, just in case Felicia mentioned Nora’s name and anyone was outside to hear it.

  “Tristan, where does she live?”

  “I don’t know the street number, just the name; she was in the car with me the first time I drove there. I’ll know it when I see it.” Locking the door, he whispered her street name and added, “Del probably knows the address, and he’ll know how to get there, too. I think he’s been there before. Hurry! Please!”

  He ended the call and raced toward the parking lot.

  CHAPTER 66

  AS DEL LUGGED his suitcase into the garage, his mind remained on Felicia. He regretted the way he’d treated her, how he had managed to mess up the one relationship in his life that ever exhibited potential for permanence. Perhaps they could mend their rift, but even if that was possible, he knew today was too soon. Given the way he’d hurt her, Del was the last person from whom she would want to hear.

  So he’d decided to get out of town. Spend a few days relaxing in Vegas. His life would heat up once he signed the paperwork with Schulman, though he had to admit, nowadays the thought of it had begun to make him nauseous. Perhaps the pressure of making a business decision while trying to honor someone’s memory was the culprit. But no matter the cause, Vegas called today, and Del could use some fresh perspective.

  He planned to surprise Nora and invite her along since she still had another week before production began on her next project. Maybe Vegas would cheer her up. The bright lights, live music, and pulsing activity always made him feel better—or, at least, distracted him for a few days. The city never slept.

  As he shoved his suitcase into the car trunk, his cell phone buzzed. He checked the display and gulped at the name that appeared.

  “Del, it’s Felicia—”

  “Felicia! I’m so glad you called! I’ve thought about you ever since we parted ways. I’m on my way to Vegas to relax, but I can cancel if you—”