Hello Hollywood
Page 29
“Dude. Seriously. She’s the one. You run into each other in L.A. You’ve both got baggage. Don’t mess it up.”
I read the entry twice, looked up at him, then read the entry a third time. Here we were, two people sitting on the banks of the Savannah River, while a Realtor waited inside the house for us, but none of that mattered. Something special was happening here. I knew it the moment a huge chunk of my next book or screenplay fell into place. “I want to call it Baggage.”
“How about Love Baggage?” he suggested.
Spoken aloud, it sounded absurd, and we exploded with laughter. “Gag,” he said. “Maybe Hollywood Baggage?”
“Worse. We need an alliteration.”
“Alliteration.” John ran his hand over his head. His hair had grown back, but not fully, and I rather liked this version of John. “Okay, I think I’ve got it. I think I’ve got the title.”
“What?”
“Hello, Hollywood.”
I rolled it around in my head for a moment. The best movies I’d seen, the best scripts I’d read, usually had strong, powerful titles. E.T., The Hunger Games, Minority Report, The World According to Garp, Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Thelma & Louise . . . How did Hello, Hollywood stand up against them?
Pretty well, I decided, and threw my arms around John’s neck. We fell back against the grass, laughing like fools, hugging and kissing, then laughing some more. “It’s a good working title,” I said.
“Ha. It’s solid all the way. . . . You think we can write this script, Sam?”
“Sure. We’ve already started it.”
“Do you want to write it here, in this house, on the banks of this river? At least part of the time?”
“It’d probably get written faster here than in Malibu, that’s for sure. Why?”
How about, what if, do you think . . . I knew I didn’t want to buy a house with a man who simply wanted to live with me. But I couldn’t think of a diplomatic way of saying that, so for at least a full minute, I didn’t say anything at all. I stared at my fingers, picked at my nails, watched a school of fish leaping in the water. I felt that curious exhilaration that comes from the high of creative adrenaline, a kind of bliss you experienced when you sensed your life had taken a ninety-degree turn for the better.
When I looked up, John was just sitting there, holding something in his cupped hands. “Sam, will you marry me?”
In the light, I could see a small gray ring box, and then he opened it and my heart caught in my throat. The blue diamond, a light blue, the color of the sky, the sort of sky where magic flourished and dreams came true. I realized he had bought this ring before we’d left New York, and that, for him, this trip had been about what he’d just said.
A simple question. Will you marry me?
The talk about the house, whether my muse could write here, hadn’t been some casual off-the-cuff thing about the two of us living together. It had been about the two of us being married, being creative partners, and doing our creative work here, away from places that held pieces of our darker personal history: New York, Malibu. I suddenly understood that, for John, the road to this moment probably had been clear from that second we’d laid eyes on each other at Blu Jam. I was the one who had thrown up issues, blocks, drama. I was the one who had created a labyrinth of challenges. Me, shit, me. Right up until this moment, this instant, I had been my own worst enemy.
“Yes,” I whispered, and wrapped my arms around him; he hugged me as though these moments were our last on the planet. “I love you . . . so . . . Sam.”
“I love you, John.”
“My Rapunzel, you are liquid love through and through.”
When we finally peeled ourselves away from each other, he took my hand and slipped the ring on my finger. It fit perfectly. “I knew it would fit.”
For a moment, I sat there admiring the ring, turning it this way and that on my finger, then I looked at him again. The light revealed his elation, as though he had reached the end point in a journey begun long ago, perhaps when he was in prison and his muse had shown him the future. But the end point was also the beginning—I saw that, too—a new chapter, a new journey, and it was one we would make together. Then it hit me. I thought of Priti and how she said to me how her country is the perfect place to be married. The ceremony, the colors, the taste of it all.
“Can we get married in India?” I asked.
“Wherever you want. Pluto. The Space Station. India. It doesn’t matter to me.” He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. The he leaped to his feet, grabbed my hands, and pulled me up. “Let’s go put a down payment on this place.”
We ran back along the river, both of us barefoot and laughing like fools.
• • •
That evening, from our B and B in downtown Savannah, we started making calls—to Isabella and Nick, then to everyone else.
A few weeks later, we wrapped the shooting in L.A., and I got serious about the wedding. Priti had made my dress, chosen the location, and I bought plane tickets for the people who would be in the wedding. On Labor Day, John and I boarded an Air India flight with the people we loved, our family and closest friends, and two days later, we were married.
The wedding was magical. In honor of our union of love, John surprised me with a beautiful Buddha tattoo with wild white daisies surrounding it. It was one of the most captivating pieces of artwork I’d ever seen. As for me, I wasn’t quite ready to be inked up so fast, only time would tell.
The music at the wedding fit everything we had lived through together and separately: “You’ve Made Me So Very Happy” by Blood, Sweat & Tears.
But you said, “Try, just once more”
You made me so very happy. I’m so glad you came into my life . . .
I am here to tell you that dreams come true. That love does come. They may not unfold in the ways you think they will, the details may not be exactly the way you imagined. But if your desire is powerful and clear, if you can get out of the way so that you aren’t your own worst enemy, then you’re in for the wildest and most beautiful ride of your life. And I promise you that none of it is predictable.
February 22, 2015
It was one of those moments to savor, a moment burned into my brain forever. John, Isabella, and I walked onto the Oscars’ red carpet together, our arms linked as though it was the three of us against the rest of the world.
We were interviewed, photographed, and I knew that, somewhere, Paul was watching, and that maybe Vito and Tony Kroon were watching, too. But I didn’t give a damn what they thought. This was our moment—John’s, Isabella’s, mine. Brooklyn Story had four Oscar nominations—Best Picture, Best Actress, Best Supporting Actress, and Best Art Direction.
For months—while the filming wrapped up, while John and Isabella and I adjusted to our new reality, while Marvin and Flannigan got married, while Liza and Brian bought a home together—I had envisioned this moment, imagined it, willed it into being. I had felt it in my blood, my bones, and savored its reality to the point where I had awakened one morning a month ago and thought the Oscars had already happened. I thought it was a done deal.
We sat close to the stage, the three of us with King and Liza, Marvin and Flannigan, Renée, and all the others. So many others. My Gallery Studios family.
I knew that the deaths of Prince and Barbara gave us a pity card, but I also knew that Brooklyn Story, on its own, without that pity card, was a solid, stellar story.
And when we won Supporting Actress and Best Picture, a cheer went up from our section of the theater, and the entire cast and crew, and King and John and I, went onstage to receive the award. As we were all onstage, all I could hear was Grandma’s voice in my ear. Mazel tov, Samelah, mazel tov.
This being the final book in my trilogy, I now think back on all the memories that are on paper and I must say, my words, my sentences, my books, they cur
ed me. Through the written word I was able to really forgive and understand why the things that happened to me really happened and to find out once and for all where and what my true destiny was to be. I am honored that God gave all this to me. He gave me the strength to go on and heal my past and to bring in wonderful people to guide me along the way. I needed to wrap up all my loose ends and really give credit to people who had done things for me that no one could ever even begin to understand. Sometimes in life people come in and do what they must, then leave, while others stay on your train until the end. Doesn’t matter how long, what matters most is what they do, what they leave you with, whether a smile was needed or a hundred bucks to get food. Whatever it was or is, they were there to make a difference and to add to one’s life at that given point. To those people who have done just that for me, I have true gratitude for all of you. And you know who you are.
Faith is something bigger than you and me and has nothing to do with what religion you are or whether or not you believe in God. It has to do with not believing in your own ego and stepping away from the mental aspect of living. Taking a moment to step into the unknown and knowing that it (or whoever) has your back and is leading you toward the answers to your prayers. When we lose faith, we lose ourselves, and that is when bad things happen to good people. In the long run, I don’t mind any wrinkles on my face as long as they are from me smiling.
I’d like to thank my publishers, Louise Burke and Jen Bergstrom (still the hot blondes) at Gallery Books/Simon & Schuster. My editors, Lauren McKenna and Natasha Simons, for giving me a fabulous ending to yet another new beginning in my life. And all my true supporters at S&S who never gave up on me or my words. My beautiful agent, Susan Ginsberg, who always has my back, and that’s a nice feeling to have. And my girl, Trish McGregor. Your Moon will always float with mine!
Samantha, my daughter, my girl. I always remind myself of how blessed I am to have you in my life. Thank you for always sharing the comforter and pillows, I will never forget, and, oh yeah, the music of Harry Styles, too! I am just a Brooklyn girl with a story to tell, since stories are all I have and telling them is my gift. And finally—to true love that lives and yearns within all of us. There is no other force that’s greater. And remember, a life without love is no life at all.
Suzanne Corso is the acclaimed author of Brooklyn Story and The Suite Life, her first two novels based on her own life. She is also a documentary producer, the author of two feature film screenplays, and of a children’s book. Visit www.suzannecorso.com.
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Also by Suzanne Corso
Brooklyn Story
The Suite Life
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Suzanne Corso
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition May 2015
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ISBN 978-1-5011-0606-4