Beautiful Mess

by Herrick, John

  “As soon as I reached her street, the reality of the news report hit me. That was the moment denial vanished and, in my heart, I knew she had died. Too many cars and too much foot traffic for it to be anything less. By the time I reached her cul-de-sac, it was chaos, with flashing police lights, press huddled together, a neighbor arguing with a police officer. It looked like a scene from a movie, but it was real. This wasn’t a production. This wasn’t a dream. This was reality.” Del rubbed away the tears that had filled his eyes. “And reality broke my heart.”

  He opened his eyes. Stared at the cold nothingness on the television screen.

  “I never took the opportunity to tell her I loved her. And suddenly, it was too late.” He bit his lip as hot tears trickled down his face. His cheeks felt chapped. “Many celebrities wanted to attend the memorial gathering at her tomb, but Joe DiMaggio kept the invitations to a minimum. I think he wanted to ensure that her mourners attended only out of respect. Thankfully, he knew how close I was to her, and he invited me.”

  He sighed.

  “I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but I’ve always felt partial responsibility for her death,” Del whispered. “You see, she was a friend, a close friend. I look back on that day, and on the months that preceded it, and wonder if I missed some sort of clue. Was I so absorbed in my own life, my own career, that I failed to recognize a sign that she was in trouble? Did I miss a cry for help?”

  He brushed aside another tear. Well, there it was: At long last, Felicia had seen him weep. Another first.

  Felicia wrapped her arm around his shoulders and rested her head against his once again. The comfort Del felt in this woman’s arms while sorrow enveloped his soul was a sensation he’d never experienced. Could he have had a relationship like this all along, had he trusted someone enough to allow it to develop?

  Felicia cuddled closer to him and whispered in his ear.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Del. I realize you wish you could have saved a life in 1962.” She paused, then added, “No, Marilyn Monroe didn’t make it through her tragedy. But what if that isn’t how her story ends? What if her legacy continues in a way the public doesn’t know about, an aspect of her memory you get to preserve privately?” She massaged his shoulder with her thumb. “What if, all these years after her departure, she saved Nora’s life?”

  Dabbing his eyes with his sleeve, Del considered the wisdom in Felicia’s words. He still wasn’t comfortable letting Felicia see him this vulnerable, but he was getting there.

  No, Del hadn’t rescued Nora Jumelle. Not really. But another screen legend had.

  Felicia was right. Del knew something else about the icon that few others did. Another treasure he would cherish in his heart.

  CHAPTER 70

  THE NEXT DAY, before he departed for his morning jog, Del phoned his new friend.

  “How are you holding up, Tristan?”

  “Hanging in there. Concerned about Nora.”

  “At least they’ve stabilized her and she’s out of Intensive Care.”

  “That’s a plus.” Tristan paused. “You hanging in there?”

  Was he? Del didn’t know how to respond. Once the prior day’s events took their toll on him, his emotions had gone beige. “Unfortunately, I’d seen this type of thing happen over and over by the time you were born.”

  “I have a hunch it meant more to you this time, though.”

  Del felt his muscles surrender to the truth.. “Yes, it did.”

  “She talks about you a lot, you know.”

  “She does?”

  “When we’re together,” Tristan replied. “She admires you. She says you two were cut from the same cloth.”

  “How so?”

  “She says you both seek something deeper than fame can offer, and that’s the reason you’re both restless.”

  Del wasn’t at a point where he could admit that. Fortunately, Tristan changed the subject for him.

  “Are you headed to the hospital today?” Tristan asked.

  “I can’t think of anyplace more important to be,” Del replied.

  Astonished, he tapped his finger on the arm of his chair.

  Who would have thought a chance encounter with a charming young lady could introduce such a rich, new facet to his life?

  CHAPTER 71

  HE KNOCKED on the door to the hospital room and peeked inside.

  Nora sat up in bed, pillows arranged behind her back. She stared at raindrops which pattered against the window pane. The shower provided a welcome respite to months of drought.

  “How’s my girl doing?”

  Nora gave Del an uninspired shrug and said, “I’m alive. And sober—in more ways than one.”

  “May I sit down?”

  That brought a wisp of a smile to Nora’s countenance, and she patted the edge of the hospital bed. Del eased over and rested against it, careful not to add too much pressure in case it would cause her discomfort.

  Nora continued to gaze at the window. “Who found me the other day?”

  “Tristan tried calling you—”

  “Yeah,” she murmured, “I vaguely remember that.”

  “He suspected you were in trouble, so he called Felicia, who called me. We met at your house. We shouted, we tried calling your phone, no response.” He offered a bittersweet chuckle. “By the way, we owe you a new front door.”

  That got her attention. Her lips parted. Clearly puzzled, she squinted as the tease took effect. “What does that mean?”

  “We broke down your door to get you.”

  “That must’ve been a new experience for you.”

  “It was a first. That’s what happens when you hang out with young people, I suppose.”

  “Oh my—” Nora shook her head and rubbed her temples. She shuddered, then covered her face. “Oh, I’m embarrassed you had to go that far.”

  “Don’t be.” In one gentle sweep, Del removed her hands from her head. She gave him a sheepish look. “Do you want to talk about it?” he offered.

  “I don’t even want to think about it,” she replied. “I lost control, Del.”

  “It happens, believe me.”

  “I mean I lost control over my life, as if it no longer belonged to me. I never cared about that Academy Award, but for some reason, it burned inside me. The passion grew. And soon, it meant everything to me.”

  “Everyone wants to be loved. Wanted.”

  “Well, it all scares me, Del.”

  He leaned in close, enveloped her hand in his, leaving room for the IV needle that was inserted into the top of her hand.

  “I’m watching over you,” he said. “From now on, you’re not alone. I’m here for you.”

  He could tell that touched her. Her expression softened and a smile emerged.

  “Del Corwyn, my guardian angel.”

  “Who would’ve thought, huh?”

  Sincerity returned to her eyes. “Thank you for finding me.”

  “I lost someone dear to me long ago,” he said. “I couldn’t watch it happen again.”

  A pause, then Del rose from the bed and kissed the top of Nora’s head.

  “Try to get some rest,” he said. “I’ll come back later.”

  On his way to the door, he turned. “Do you want me to contact any family members?”

  Nora folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t have family, Del.”

  Del grinned, then shot her a wink.

  “Now you do.”

  CHAPTER 72

  THE DOOR TO FELICIA’S OFFICE was open. A Bible sat open on her desk, along with a handful of other books from which she read, then typed brief notes on her laptop. Engrossed in one book, Felicia didn’t notice Del’s approach.

  “May I come in?”

  Felicia peered over her reading glasses, regarded him without expression, and then gestured to the seats in front of her. As Del sat down, she folded her hands atop the desk. Though she didn’t utter a word, she studied him, giving him the chance to speak first.

/>   “Are you busy?”

  “I’m in the middle of preparing a sermon, Del.”

  “Do you have time to talk?”

  She removed her glasses and folded her hands again, which Del figured might be the closest he’d come to a yes.

  Aside from the day of Nora’s tragedy, today was the first time he and Felicia had spoken since ending their relationship. And her current silence didn’t bode well for him.

  “It’s a shame what happened,” said Del. “To Nora, I mean.”

  “I feel so bad for her,” said Felicia, who relaxed her shoulders. “I hate seeing people in those predicaments, where they feel they can’t escape.”

  “We got there in time, though.”

  “Thankfully, God had His eye on her.”

  “It seemed like divine Providence, yes.”

  Del noticed Felicia had pulled her hair into a ponytail. He picked up a trace of her perfume, airy and floral. He still thought her beautiful. He regretted the unfair, self-centered outbursts he had made outside this building. Why had he lashed out at her that way? Even in the heat of the moment, he’d recognized she had sterling intentions.

  “So where does that leave us?” he asked.

  Felicia blinked. Otherwise, her face remained carved marble. “Us?”

  “Well, sure. I mean, I’m here. You’re here. The question is, what’s between us?”

  “I think you made it clear where you stand, Del.”

  She wasn’t making this easy for him. Then again, why should she? He’d assumed she’d be willing to talk, but maybe she didn’t want to see his face again and was too polite to say so. Maybe he was wasting his time here, but he couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t deny how he felt about her, or the way she’d drawn his heart to hers.

  “I misjudged you,” he said, “and I’m sorry for that. I’ve kicked myself ever since.”

  She stared at him, wordless. Okay, she wanted to hear more. Whether that was a good or bad sign, Del didn’t know, but he kept going. After all, if he didn’t try to win her back, he stood to lose everything.

  “I admit, I’m settled in my ways,” he continued. “I’m self-absorbed, and I don’t even know why or how I got that way. Years have stacked upon years, crusted over, and calcified. That doesn’t prevent a man from amending his ways; it just means change doesn’t come without tremendous effort.”

  Felicia continued to stare at him, but the initial guardedness in her glare had begun to retreat. He might as well press forward and hope for the best, he figured.

  “If you’re looking for a perfect man, Felicia, you won’t find one in me.” Nervous, his belly fluttered. He craved a bottled water, if for no other reason than to occupy his hands, which had slickened with sweat. On the other hand, the bottle would have slipped from his grasp and spilled over her desk and into her lap. Del cleared his throat.

  “This whole season—everything about it and all the individuals involved—has gotten me thinking about dreams. I’ve examined my life. Not the way an accountant analyzes things, but the way you examine your circumstances when you’re stuck. When you find yourself in the middle of a forest and nighttime settles in. The batteries in your flashlight have died, so you try to navigate by feel, desperate to find your way. You hear wolves howl in the distance. Your breath goes short. You hope you’ll make it through to dawn. That kind of examination.” He paused. “The kind where you discover you took everything important in life for granted, and if you hadn’t, you’d be spending the evening with the woman you love instead of wandering in circles in the woods.”

  “That sounds like a movie, Del.”

  “My life is a movie, Felicia. It’s fiction,” he replied. “I’m not real. I’m a ghost. Invisible. I know I’m here, but nobody else does. And so I surround myself with a fictitious world, complete with a plot, every day scripted, all the props in the right places. And when the production day wraps, all the players depart to their homes and loved ones and their broken lives, and I’m left alone with my dreams, the same ones that sat there unfulfilled when I awoke that morning.” Now he fixed his eyes on hers, and they communicated in their mutual gaze. “All the fame and glamour, all those big dreams. And now, at seventy-eight years old, I’ve come to realize that maybe I’ve been dreaming too small all along.”

  Felicia pursed her lips. Fighting tears, perhaps? Her hands had parted. Her entire demeanor spoke of hesitation. Indecision. The risk of getting her heart broken all over again. She swallowed, then exhaled, her eyebrows raised in resignation.

  “I can’t stop you from dreaming,” she said. “If you want to rebuild your career—”

  “Stop,” he murmured, rising from his seat. “Please stop.”

  Del took a step forward, paused to allow his lower back to loosen—that nuisance, never hitting him at a convenient time—and eased around the side of the desk. She swiveled to face him. He reached for Felicia’s hand, which she allowed him to take into his. He gazed at the sight of their intermingled fingers and discovered hers were as damp as his own.

  Del lowered himself to one knee and held her hand with the care he would give to a large ruby.

  “I don’t want the material stuff, Felicia,” he said, putting into his words all the affection his soul could muster. “I want you. Whatever that takes, I want you.”

  Felicia’s eyes had grown moist. Her lips moved but no sound came forth. She blinked once. Slowly.

  She pressed her lips together, bit back tears. And when she smiled, life traveled into her eyes.

  She leaned forward, cupped Del’s face with her hands, and stroked his cheekbones once with her thumbs.

  CHAPTER 73

  DRESSED IN AN EXPENSIVE blazer and an Oxford shirt unbuttoned at the collar, Del sat in a bistro facing all incoming patrons, whose attire resembled his own. The bistro was known in town as an establishment where those who wielded power often congregated to hammer out deals. A restaurant with a faux-casual flair where you ordered all side items a la carte, French fries were thick strips of fried Yukon gold potatoes, and where the tips alone were more than a family of four in Del’s hometown paid for dinner at their local diner. The atmosphere dripped with the aura of influence. Del felt the magnetism of limitless expense accounts.

  Bernie Schulman walked in, dressed in a black suit and a power-red tie. He carried a small, black portfolio. Del lifted an index finger to signal his whereabouts.

  “You certainly dressed for the occasion,” Del noted.

  “Gotta fly to Manhattan after this. I’m meeting with Clive Davis about a couple of recording artists for the soundtrack. Getting everything in motion so we’re ready to pull the trigger on our little Beautiful Mess.”

  “That’s the reason I called the meeting.”

  “I figured as much.” Schulman shook his linen napkin and folded it across his lap. “Don’t worry, Del. Your role in the film is secure.” Tapping his finger on the portfolio, he added, “I have the paperwork here, ready for us to seal the deal. Arnie and I worked out all the details. You made the right choice signing with my studio.”

  Schulman perused the menu. Del had lost his appetite. He wanted to press through this lunch and leave.

  “I assume you saw the advance copy of the contract my assistant sent your way?” Schulman said, his voice half-absent as his eyes flicked from one entrée to the next. “I’m on a diet. Damn salads.”

  “Yes, Bernie, I saw the contract. And I appreciate the generosity.” Del spoke to the guy’s oily forehead. “But I’m afraid there won’t be a deal.”

  Schulman didn’t move, yet tension engulfed the space between them. A splotch of pink appeared on his brow.

  The studio head placed his menu on the table and pierced Del with a glare that would have frightened Del on the set of The Prince and the Showgirl. At this point in his life, however, Del had advanced too far and matured too much to care.

  “May I take your order, gentlemen?”

  Schulman shot one hand, palm outward, in the waiter’s
direction. “Not now.”

  Without a further word, the server offered a slight bow, then spun on his heels and hustled away as fast as his casual stride could carry him.

  Schulman’s eyebrows knitted together. Grooves formed along his wide, oily brow. “I think I missed something here. Did you sign with someone else?”

  “No, Bernie.”

  “I thought we had an agreement, Del.”

  “A verbal one. An understanding.”

  “When you and I were young, verbal agreements meant something.”

  “Let’s say there’s been a change in circumstances.”

  Schulman snorted, an understated smugness. “Is it a money thing? You want more?”

  “No.”

  “A producer credit?”

  Del knew how much Schulman craved this deal. No doubt, the studio chief could envision a competitor swooping in and stealing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity from his lap. But screwing him over wasn’t Del’s intention. Del had made up his mind. He needed to protect Marilyn Monroe’s memory, first and foremost. And to do so, he couldn’t allow the public to see this script.

  “I don’t want anything from you, Bernie. I’ve simply decided not to make the script public. Period.”

  Schulman pursed his lips, scanned the tables in his vicinity, then drilled his eyes into Del’s. Though he kept his voice subdued, the man’s glare could have frozen a hot coal.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Del.”

  Del sighed in resignation. “That’s not my intention. I’ve had a change of heart. It’s a personal thing.”

  Schulman shook his head in disbelief. “I strongly urge you to reconsider.”

  “I can’t, Bernie.”

  “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying here.” Leaning forward, making sure he had Del’s full attention, he added, “You need this project to happen.”

  “I used to think so, too.” Del’s mind raced through the loss of income and what that would mean, and even now, anxiety threatened to enshroud his intentions. But when he thought of Felicia, Nora…and the friend whose reputation he sought to preserve today, it bolstered his resolve. “I’ve made my decision, Bernie. This deal isn’t going to go through. Not for you, not for anyone.”