Schulman pressed his lips into a thin line again. By now, his face blistered red, and the boil had spread to his brow, ears and neck, where loose skin betrayed his age. In an obvious effort to maintain his composure, he grinned and nodded, as though he still called the shots at this power meeting.
He jabbed a stubby finger in Del’s direction, low enough so nobody except Del would see it. From the flesh of the fingertip, Del detected the aroma of cigars. Expensive cigars. Schulman’s voice, though restrained, increased a notch louder.
“You’re finished,” Schulman hissed. “You can forget about your big comeback, Corwyn—now or ever. I’ll personally guarantee you never work again—not for the rest of your miserable, washed-up life. I’m gonna kick your ass so sore, you’ll be paying a fucking home nurse to rub it down with aloe.”
And yet, Del remained at peace.
With one final glare just to communicate he meant business, Schulman straightened his tie. Slapping the napkin on the table, he arose, brushed the temporary wrinkles from his suit, and strolled toward the restaurant’s entrance. The image of power—though Del noticed a few extra inches in Schulman’s strides.
The telltale sign of a defeated man who wasn’t accustomed to losing battles.
When the waiter returned, Del ordered a Cobb salad.
And a bottle of Dom Perignon for the hell of it.
CHAPTER 74
DEL THOUGHT Arnie would have a heart attack when he reported the news about the meeting with Schulman—and the end of negotiations which his agent had worked so hard to hammer out.
When Arnie returned his copy of the script to Del, he did so with the solemnity of a man in mourning. After all, his career had come to an end, too. In the big leagues, at least. Not that he’d ever advanced beyond the status of a third-string kicker. Arnie would, in due time, return to making minor deals. Within a few months, the blame for this media debacle would rest solely on Del Corwyn’s shoulders.
That night, Del ran his palm over both photocopies of the screenplay and sealed the stack with a tender, heartfelt kiss. It was the closest he could come to showing affection to his friend.
With a glass of wine in one hand, he carried the scripts to his living room, where a cozy fire danced in the fireplace. Miles Davis played on the stereo.
One by one, Del fed the pages into the fire. Flames licked the edges, which browned, curled and crackled as destruction crept toward the center of each page, turning it to ash which fluttered like dirty snowflakes to the bottom of the fireplace.
* * *
Darkness had set in. The Malibu shoreline had emptied.
Del zipped his windbreaker as a breeze rushed across the cold Pacific Ocean.
Tilting the vase toward the ocean, he sprinkled the ashes of the screenplay upon the water.
The atmosphere was silent, save the roar of high tide. The same tide Marilyn Monroe had loved to watch, once upon a time. Even now, Del could hear her giggle as the chilly water swept over her cherry-red toenails, then receded, leaving behind white foam that fizzled and dissolved around her.
CHAPTER 75
LOS ANGELES, 1961
DEL ZIPPED UP the Pacific Coast Highway in his 1956 Chevy Bel Air. He was under contract with Columbia Pictures, and after two years of continuous—though minor—roles, he was no longer a starving artist. On occasion, he received positive mentions in film reviews. His career was on the rise. So he’d splurged and bought this convertible secondhand. His first major purchase since he’d arrived in Los Angeles, this car was a source of pride. A two-tone beauty of pinecrest green and India ivory.
He had turned down the vehicle’s white soft top. Now he settled against the green interior and allowed his hair to whip in the wind. On the radio, “Travelin’ Man” Ricky Nelson crooned about a Polynesian baby awaiting him in Waikiki.
Del’s car contained a V8 engine, which he enjoyed pushing to its limits when he hit straight patches along the coast, pockets where he knew he wouldn’t find pedestrians or police officers. In the passenger seat, Marilyn squealed with delight as he navigated a sharp curve around the mountain.
She wore large, dark sunglasses and a thin, stylish scarf on her head. Locks of platinum-blond hair peeked out from under it. For a woman considered a sex symbol, her manner of dress puzzled Del. She kept a conservative wardrobe—a tight turtleneck sweater today—almost as if she wanted to hide her figure from public view.
It was a Sunday afternoon, balmy beneath a gleaming sun, and Del wore a short-sleeve shirt with fat, vertical stripes. Marilyn guided him to an isolated stretch of beach in Malibu, where Del pulled off the road. It was a nook where they could park and savor the ocean with no one around to recognize her. Del shut off the engine but left the radio playing at low volume.
“One day, years from now,” announced Del, “I’m going to live here.”
“In Malibu?”
Call it faith, but Del felt invincible, as though the impossible were within his grasp. Victory burned inside his bones.
“Right up there.” He pointed across the road to the mountain that hovered over them. “In a mansion, where the big-timers live.”
“How wonderful!” She yanked off her sunglasses. “And we’ll throw a party! A housewarming! With an open bar!”
“Careful,” Del teased. “Don’t spend all my money on this party. Gonna need to pinch every penny to afford that nifty house.”
“Oh, pooh.” She nudged his arm. “I’ll take care of you. That’s the way it is, isn’t it? You and I? We take care of each other.”
“Forever.”
Curiosity filled her stare. Angling back, she regarded him the way she might have admired a Monet. Time stopped. Seagulls squawked, but Del paid them no attention. Marilyn drew near, laid her palm on his cheek, and kissed him. One kiss, long and full. Too stunned to return the gesture, Del froze as her lips pressed against his. He detected a trace of spearmint on her breath. He could taste her lipstick.
Del felt his loins stir and, in self-consciousness, tried to pull his shirt over his lap without disrupting the moment. How long had he dreamed of this, yet never expected it to manifest? And now that it did, he hesitated. So many people had taken advantage of her. He couldn’t add himself to that list.
When she pulled away, she returned her attention to the rolling waves before them, as though nothing had happened.
Reaching for his hand, Marilyn bit her lower lip. “Have you ever been in love, Del?”
His heart trembled at the thought. Could he tell her the truth?
He wondered if he was the only one who understood her well enough to become the man she needed. Perhaps she didn’t even know herself that well.
He loved her, he knew that much. But he couldn’t wrap words around the affection he felt for her. Had he fallen in love, or did he love her simply because she seemed beyond the scope of possibility?
“I’m not sure I’ve ever fallen in love,” he replied at last.
Del wanted to shed a tear.
Just tell her. You don’t know what tomorrow could bring. What if the opportunity vanishes?
The radio station sounded its call letters in four-part harmony, followed by “Where the Boys Are” by Connie Francis. Marilyn hummed along to the dreamy melody as she gazed at the horizon, where a dolphin lunged in the distance. Yearning settled upon her face. Her eyes glossed over with tears.
Suddenly, she looked so fragile, like a wilting tulip, and the resolve to protect her emerged in Del’s soul. As they sat in the car, their roles reversed.
Del was now her guardian.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Of course I’m happy,” she replied. “We always have fun cruising the coast together.”
“No, I mean in life. Are you content?”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then followed it with a look of confusion. She continued to stare at the great beyond, as though searching for a way to answer the ca
ll of the seagulls.
“I should be happy,” Marilyn said, almost to herself, “but I can’t say that I am. A moment here, a moment there, perhaps. But in general, sadness consumes me. Life is full of tragedy.”
A tear escaped her eye, which she smoothed with her thumb. She wore no mascara. After all, she was with her friend Del, who didn’t care how she looked.
“People see this bubbly woman on the silver screen. They read about the parties she attends and how popular she is. But inside, I feel like chaos.”
She chuckled. A sad, absent laugh. Then she placed her hand on his and pivoted in her seat. Not one for sympathy, Marilyn Monroe was a woman of steel. She smiled through the pools in her sterling blue eyes.
“I’m a mess, Del. A beautiful mess, that’s what I am.” With a sniffle, she removed a white handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “But you, Del—you’re a handsome, eager young prince with a full life ahead of him.”
Marilyn searched his face, a vulnerable woman on a personal quest.
She was looking for joy. Del knew it. She was desperate to find it in his eyes.
She reached out, placed her hands on his face, one on each cheek. Her flesh felt warm. And when she had his undivided attention, her voice filled with conviction and hope.
“My little star,” she whispered. “That’s what you are, Del Corwyn. My bright, shining star.”
EPILOGUE
FAMILY CONTINUUM
JUPITER ISLAND, FLORIDA
DEL COULD TASTE the tropical flavor in the Florida sunshine. Contrary to his routine in California, where the Pacific always felt too cold for comfort, Del had come to love dipping his toes in the Atlantic bathwater.
Felicia preferred it, too. Much to their surprise, neither missed their former home.
Del leaned against the railing on his back porch and watched palm branches rustle in the breeze. Waves of emerald green danced beneath a horizon that stretched as far as the eye could see. Breathing deep, he allowed the scent of brine to soothe him. He swore his tanned arms had morphed to a different tone of copper here. Dryer. More casual.
He heard the glass door slide open. Felicia peeked out.
“They’re here!” she announced.
Del nodded, removed his sunglasses, and wandered into the house. He followed the sound of chatter to the foyer, where he shook hands with Tristan and enveloped Nora in a heartfelt bear hug that lingered an extra moment. The visitors’ luggage sat at the foot of the staircase.
“Why did you wait a whole year before getting yourselves down here?” Del teased.
“Del’s talked about you nonstop ever since he moved down here,” Felicia added. She approached Del from behind, wrapped her arms around his waist, and nuzzled her chin against his neck. He tilted his head and pecked her cheek with a kiss.
“Once production began on my next project, I hit the ground running and never slowed down,” Nora replied. “This is the first breather I’ve taken ever since.”
“You’re happy though? Safe? In a good place?”
She responded with a playful roll of her eyes. “Yes, Del, I’m a happy camper.”
Del gestured toward the hallway. “Come see the humble abode.”
Del and Felicia led their friends through the den, the kitchen, and a few more rooms on the first floor. Within a few minutes, they entered Del’s study, which contained a desk made of cherry wood, on which a laptop computer whirred, a soft leather chair positioned behind it. Cherry bookshelves lined one wall. Wallpaper wrapped the room in masculine tones of burgundy and navy blue. The office featured a nautical motif, with small model ships accenting the bookshelves.
“I’m so proud of Del,” Felicia said. “He decorated this room himself. He even hung the wallpaper. It was finished before I ever moved in.”
“Impressive.” Tristan gave Del a jesting jab with his thumb. “A decorator? You’ve found your second calling.”
Del grinned. This was his favorite room in the house.
And he’d embedded a secret upon its walls.
He’d ceased all negotiations for Beautiful Mess. As Bernie Schulman had threatened and Del had expected, the move had cost the actor his career, and had sealed his need to downsize to this home in Florida.
Del couldn’t bear to destroy Marilyn’s work or discard her memory. So he’d destroyed the photocopies he’d made, but not the original. But he couldn’t keep the script intact. That put the document at risk of someone finding it. Moreover, Del feared the temptation to re-enter negotiations in the future. After seeing what a hoopla the script’s discovery had generated, he knew the studios would jump at the chance to have another shot.
He’d yielded to that weakness once. He couldn’t fall victim to it again, this time immortalizing the script on film and, in the process, destroying the Marilyn Monroe the public had come to know and love.
Yet he wanted to keep her with him.
Del needed a solution. And it came to him two weeks after he’d settled into his new home.
He had moved to Florida in advance, to prepare the house while Felicia wrapped up final details with her congregation before her retirement. So while she resided in Los Angeles, Del picked the décor for this room and put his plan into motion. When he first moved in, the walls were painted white.
Using a Sharpie, Del blackened the information on the script’s title page and, one by one, retracted the title in each individual page header to render the script anonymous. Next, using wallpaper glue, Del affixed each individual page of Marilyn’s script to the walls of his study. He wasn’t sure he’d have enough space to fit all the pages, but he’d wound up with a few square feet to spare. Once the glue dried, he overlaid the pages with the wallpaper his guests saw today.
He never told a soul. Not even Felicia. Though one day, Del promised himself, he would.
Nobody would discover the pages of the script. Given the amount of glue he’d used, if anyone tried to remove the script from the wall, they would need to scrape it off, which would reduce the pages to chips and shavings, rendering them unreadable. Del planned to remain in his home until the day he died. By the time that happened, those who had read the script and knew its premise would have retired or passed away. With neither title nor author visible on the pages, it would look like a random screenplay somebody had written. The fingerprints would mean nothing to them, but he’d blackened those, too, to be safe.
In the off-chance someone recovered the pages and kept them intact, Del had taken another step to protect his friend. The key document—the cover letter with Marilyn’s matching thumbprint and explanation—would disappear. As the final gift she’d given Del, the letter remained precious to him. He couldn’t bear to let it go. And when he died, he would take it with him.
He’d folded her letter—envelope and all—into thirds and sealed it inside a larger, pink envelope. Although he’d written nothing on the outside, the color would be easy to identify. Then he’d locked the pink, unmarked envelope in the safe that sat at the corner of his study.
Upon relocating here, he’d updated his will to include Felicia. In the updated document, he also provided the combination to his safe and left instructions regarding a pink, unmarked envelope inside. According to Del’s specifications, the envelope was to remain sealed and join him in his cremation. By the time anyone removed the wallpaper, the final evidence of the script’s authenticity would have vanished.
* * *
Sunset turned the sky sherbet orange. Although humidity hung in the air, the temperature had cooled. On the back porch, the foursome gathered around the table. Del had grilled their lobsters to perfection. The scent of the charred grill, lemon and melted butter stoked hunger pangs in Del’s stomach. Felicia prayed a blessing over the meal.
“So how’s married life treating you, Del?” asked Nora.
“There’s a first for everything—even when you’re almost eighty,” he replied, drawing his wife close and giving her a tender squeeze. “And it’s the best
decision I’ve ever made. Why did I wait so long for this?”
Felicia opened the bottle of wine Nora and Tristan had brought and poured everyone a glass, which they lifted in unison.
“To new beginnings,” offered Tristan.
Del lifted his glass an inch higher. Gratitude filled his heart.
“And to enduring friendships,” he added.
The foursome clinked glasses.
Conversation came in such an effortless manner, Del felt as though the passage of time hadn’t left its mark.
The four friends chatted. They laughed. They teased. And they shed a few tears.
Darkness settled in. The breaking of waves seemed to roar louder as the hours passed and the tide crept farther up the shore, closer to the back porch.
The foursome remained at the table until late into the evening.
BEAUTIFUL MESS
By John Herrick
READING GROUP GUIDE
BEAUTIFUL MESS
By John Herrick
READING GROUP GUIDE
Discussion Questions
1. To which character did you relate the most? Why?
2. In Chapter 3, 4 & 10, Nora views herself as part of a continuum. Beautiful Mess treats one continuum—the art and evolution of film—as a microcosm of the continuum of life. It analyzes how random encounters in a large city can change lives across space and time. How do random encounters among the novel’s characters impact each other? How does young Del’s first encounter with Marilyn Monroe impact his life—and the lives of others—in the future? Can you recall a random encounter in your life that left you forever changed?
3. How does Del mature over the course of the story? What lessons does he learn about life and career? How do Felicia, Tristan and Nora help him grow? How does Del help the other characters mature?
Beautiful Mess Page 25
