Beautiful Mess Read online

  He knew she lived on her cell phone and would have it with her, so Tristan (Russell Merritt) opened his instant messaging application.

  RMerritt44: Hi Jennifer. Are you available?

  A pause as he sipped his Americano and Bluetoothed some more rap music through his stereo with the volume down. His laptop pinged.

  Jen99288: You were right about painting. It’s the perfect outlet. I think I’ve found my calling.

  RMerritt44: Have you researched a particular method?

  Jen99288: My method is to put on paper what I feel at the moment. I think it’s helped me cleanse my soul.

  RMerritt44: I understand. Excellent thinking on your part. You can’t underestimate the importance of your soul. Inner well-being is as important as, if not more so than, your outer well-being.

  That line seemed to be a winner with his clients. Tristan had used it more times than he could count. Inner well-being could mean whatever each client wanted it to mean; he didn’t care, as long as he got paid. But he had to admit, it made him sound pretty damn intelligent.

  Jen99288: I showed one of my paintings to my girlfriend Gillian, who said she believes they could appear in a gallery.

  RMerritt44: That is wonderful! You sounded doubtful in your last email.

  Jen99288: Yes, it’s my husband. He hasn’t been so supportive. I don’t think he understands how important painting is to my soul.

  Tristan pushed aside his brown hair, which had flopped over one eye, and made a mental note to get a haircut. He maintained a shaggy cut in the current trend of careless cool. He shaved every other day.

  RMerritt44: Do you recall what I have told you about his opinion?

  Jen99288: Yes, you’re right. You said it takes time for greatness to become appreciated. My opinion is what matters, and I should search for my own inner happiness.

  RMerritt44: I believe you have made much progress. Next time you paint, try to find the colors to express inner peace. I believe that will help you.

  Tristan could help himself. Even he had to chuckle at that line of bullshit.

  Jen99288: Thank you, Russ. I always feel better after my sessions with you.

  RMerritt44: My pleasure. And tell you what, I won’t charge you for this session. We’ll consider it a follow-up appointment.

  Jen99288: Talk later.

  Tristan hadn’t planned on becoming a wellness coach. Hell, he’d never even sought training in it.

  Fifteen years ago, upon graduating high school, Tristan skipped town and migrated to Los Angeles. An idealistic teenager, he’d had one plan: to become famous. After all, he considered himself a decent-looking guy with aqua-blue eyes, a hot tub into which females couldn’t help but wade.

  Tristan didn’t become famous. He never stumbled across an acting gig. However, within six months of his arrival, he’d become the most popular server at his neighborhood Denny’s.

  The Internet had come into its prime. People had grown more comfortable purchasing merchandise, making donations, and conducting business online. Everyone he knew had acquired an email address. Within a few short years, websites had advanced enough to handle more complex content.

  Around that time, Tristan had wandered to an outdoor shopping mall and, peering down from the second floor, he noticed a kiosk, around which a handful of individuals sat on barstools. He’d caught sight of one of the patrons, a young woman with a blond ponytail and sunglasses. Once his lust subsided, Tristan watched with curiosity as the woman lifted something to her nose and inhaled it. He couldn’t shake how odd the sight appeared. After purchasing a shirt at a clothing store, he jogged downstairs to see what the kiosk sold—and discovered it was a scent bar.

  A scent bar!

  Those suckers had paid to sniff air freshener!

  At that moment, Tristan realized people would hand over money for anything.

  Serving tables for pocket-change tips? Sucks to that. He knew he could do better. And that was when the idea hit him.

  Tristan had tinkered with web design in high school and grown adept at it, so he created a few pages, designed a rudimentary database, and wrote some JavaScript to make them interact. Voila! Tristan was a wellness coach. He would charge people for bullshit advice. He’d conduct his business by email and the occasional online chat. That way, he could control his own schedule and work around his hours as a server. And by working online, clients didn’t need to visit an office or endure the awkwardness of looking someone in the eye as they admitted their problems. They could remain anonymous with him—and, more importantly, they would never see how young he was. He’d lied in his original online bio, but once he grew his business, his conscience got the better of him. So he revamped his bio to focus on his years of experience as a wellness coach to many satisfied clients, which was true.

  When he started his business, Tristan had hoped to give the finger to his restaurant job, maybe even sleep late in the mornings.

  He’d posted flyers on public bulletin boards and left stacks in restaurants and salons. He’d even sneaked a few onto the corner of that mall kiosk to attract those gullible scent-bar schmucks.

  And you know what? They bought it! The suckers paid him like he was some badass psychotherapist! His website took off. Soon he raised his prices and, in time, overshadowed what he earned at the restaurant. As it turned out, his advice, though fabricated as needed, proved adequate. Satisfied clients talked to their friends, and as word of mouth multiplied, so did demand for his advice. Clients ranged from young wannabes to wealthy wives in Beverly Hills, like Jennifer. When demand surged, he bloated his prices further.

  To increase demand and come across as personable, he’d wanted to include a photo of himself on his website. But why would middle-aged career people seek advice from a guy who, when he first set up shop, was still a teenager? So he spent forty bucks on a stock photo of a respectable-looking man whose dark hair had started to gray along the temples. The man wore trendy eyeglasses and possessed an undercurrent of sex appeal, the kind of professional Tristan could picture women dreaming about behind closed doors.

  And Tristan adopted the alias Russell Merrick.

  Russell Merrick, online wellness coach.

  Within a year, he had quit his job and given the finger to the diner.

  CHAPTER 10

  THEY CLINKED wine glasses at a table at Morocco Night. More patrons populated the room than on the night they’d met, but it still offered the privacy Nora sought. Del couldn’t help but grin as she licked her red lips and swayed to the voice of Billie Holiday in a manner that reminded him of the playful innocence Marilyn Monroe brought to the screen in The Seven-Year Itch. Nora’s husky voice, however, shattered that image with a point-blank gunshot.

  “Of all the people you worked with, did you have a favorite?” she asked.

  Del gazed around the room and discovered new comfort in the furnishings of yesteryear. He sunk the toes of his shoes into the rug, which felt an inch thick. “So many, I’ve lost track of them all. Doris Day would be in my top ten.”

  “Doris who?”

  Del caught himself before his mouth fell agape. “Doris Day.”

  “And she was an actress?”

  What the hell? “Yes, from the sixties. She did all kinds of work, from comedies to Hitchcock. Eventually, she had her own television show.”

  “I’ve never seen that show, I guess.”

  “It was before your time.”

  “I have to admit, I’m not well versed in all the legends of Hollywood. I know the big names.”

  “But not Doris Day?”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “In that case, you’ll have to forgive me if I relive my own era,” Del chuckled, “I grew up on Howdy Doody.”

  Nora’s brow wrinkled. ”Howdy Doody? Is that how you told people hello when you were a kid?”

  “It was a TV show. A children’s program.”

  “Kind of like Sesame Street? That’s the show I grew up with.” She paused for a moment, loo
king perplexed. “Did Bert and Ernie ever get married?”

  Del shook his head at how things had changed. Then again, after all those years watching Howdy Doody, he never did figure out if Clarabell the Clown was male or female, so maybe every generation grew up with its share of gender speculation.

  Del studied Nora further as she sipped her pinot noir and scratched at the fabric on her chair. “Where did you grow up, Nora?”

  “Philadelphia. Where are you from?”

  “Nebraska.”

  “That sounds quaint. You don’t strike me as Nebraskan.”

  “I haven’t been there in years.”

  “Not even to see family?”

  “Well, my parents passed away twenty-seven years ago, so…”

  “Did you get along well with them?”

  “Oh, sure.” He reminisced for a moment, then added, “Except when I got caught sticking chewing gum under my desk at school. Teacher sent me straight to the principal’s office. My dad tanned my hide for that one.”

  A quizzical expression overtook Nora’s face. “For gum? Did the police arrest you for that?” she chuckled.

  “The police?”

  “Didn’t you have a police officer monitoring your school?”

  She looked serious. Del didn’t know how to respond. “No, I can’t say that we did. Did the police monitor your school?”

  “Of course.”

  “What for?”

  Nora shrugged. “Drugs, alcohol, whatever. Or in case some kid decided to pack a gun and go on a rampage.”

  “Is that what went through your mind as a kid?”

  “Sometimes. I mean, if it could happen in Arkansas or Colorado, it could happen anywhere, right?”

  No wonder he didn’t date women this young. Lingo alone would produce a gulf between them if Del didn’t keep track of the latest idioms.

  Such a shame, too. Nora possessed an enigmatic beauty.

  And true to form, she beat him to the punch.

  “We’re a romantic mismatch, aren’t we?” Her words came across as an acknowledgment of fact rather than a question.

  “As much as I hate to say so,” Del winced. “That said, the other night was nice.”

  “Yes, it was.” She leaned forward, her eyes squinting as she examined him, then added, “Too bad. You’re a very sexy man.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, my dear.”

  “You should.” Her countenance glowed in the light of the small table lamp.

  “Friends?” Del offered.

  “Friends.”

  And they shook on it. Her idea. She reached out, gave his hand a firm pump, then giggled at the gesture. Del couldn’t help but snicker in response.

  Nora settled back into her cushioned chair and rubbed her pinky along the stem of her glass, peering into the pool of magenta inside.

  “I’m a mess anyway,” she mumbled in afterthought. “You wouldn’t want to get involved with me.”

  “A mess? I find that difficult to believe.”

  “It’s the honest truth.” She paused to ponder her admission. “I’m not as confident as I come across on screen, not the way people try to portray me. Insecurity torments me.”

  “That’s part of being an artist, though, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose. But it’s more than just being an artist Being in the spotlight—it’s all so…new.

  “I’ve fought to get to where I am,” she continued. “Maybe you get so used to fighting, it becomes your norm. Then one day, you wake up. You’ve got what you’ve been seeking; meanwhile, everything around you has changed. Your comfort zone has vanished. You look for stability, for something to remind you that however shaky you feel, life goes on and you’ll find a way to breathe.

  “Then you start to wonder if you truly want what you’ve sought all along. At first, it looked like a dream; but when it crosses your path, it turns out to be the foothill of another mountain to climb, a bigger one, but this new one isn’t a mountain you chose to climb. You’re forced to climb this new mountain blind, and that scares the hell out of you.”

  She shook her head, as though clearing pixie dust from her vision, and looked at Del with childlike eyes, innocent and confused.

  “Am I even making sense?” she asked. “How ridiculous to feel that way. I must sound like a crazy person.”

  With a sympathetic sigh, Del reached across the table and stroked her hand.

  “You’re not crazy,” he replied, then refilled their glasses from the wine bottle they shared. “We all have insecurities, fears we bury in our souls, hoping no one will unearth,” he murmured, half to himself. “Things we hide from the world around us—maybe even hide from ourselves.”

  Nora responded with a smile that gleamed from one corner to the other. She had perfect teeth, whiter than milk.

  “Older and wiser,” she observed.

  Del hated hearing references to his age. Nora must have noticed a shift in his demeanor, because she startled, her smile contracting into an O shape of concern.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean ‘older’ in a negative way.”

  “I’ll admit I’m not a spring chicken.”

  Twisting her mouth into a wry grin, she reached out and touched his arm. “You’re the most youthful mature man I’ve ever met.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh to himself.

  “Seriously!” she exclaimed. “I wouldn’t have wound up at your house the other night if you weren’t. Do you realize how many older men have tried to lure me into bed? When I said older and wiser, I meant you’ve been through this change of life before, the spotlight thing, and you’ve survived. So have all the other people that this Morocco place represents.” Nora examined him further, her eyes flicking from one part of his face to another. “Maybe that’s why I feel comfortable with you and why I feel comfortable here.”

  “Perhaps you’re an old soul,” Del observed.

  “Maybe.”

  Del’s heart went out to her. Such a strong young woman, yet so vulnerable here, where nobody could see. Now he regretted their spending the night together. Del enjoyed the company of women but never took advantage of them, and he hoped he hadn’t overstepped a boundary with Nora. Fortunately, they had moved beyond that night and enjoyed each other’s company. He felt drawn to her, not for her appearance or reputation, but for the woman he’d begun to discover beneath the surface. Honest. Intense.

  The club’s music switched to an instrumental. “The Stripper,” by David Rose and his Orchestra. A fleeting pain pricked Del’s heart. He seldom heard this song, but for Del, it ushered forth painful memories of Marilyn Monroe’s death. The song was in the top ten the week she passed.

  He decided to change the subject to something more pleasant.

  “Nora Jumelle,” he said, lending a lush accent to his pronunciation. “It has an intriguing ring to it.”

  “It’s French.”

  “That can’t be your birth name.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her platonic flirtation returned. “What makes you so sure about that?”

  “It’s too perfect. Too mysterious.”

  “Not all enigmas evolve. Some were created that way.”

  Del grinned. “You’re a special woman, but I think there’s a girl-next-door tucked beneath the façade.”

  Nora brushed a drop of wine from her lip and rolled her eyes. “Tasmyn.”

  “Come again?”

  “That’s my birth name: Nora Tasmyn.”

  “It’s not exactly boring. Why did you change it?”

  With a shrug, she replied, “It’s part of the continuum, I guess. I chose the name when I was thirteen. Jumelle sounded bigger, more sweeping, more glamorous. Tasmyn is so abrupt, you know?” Spreading her fingers into claws. ”Tasmyn. It’s like you reach the last syllable and come to a screeching halt. But Jumelle—” Her face lit up. “Can you hear it? The last syllable lingers. Listen to how that sounds: Nora Jumelle. Doesn’t it flow from your tongue? It’s pas
sionate, infused with mystery.”

  This girl was no dummy. Even at thirteen years old, she’d known what she wanted and had the instincts to get there. Maybe she was born an enigma.

  Del wasn’t used to profound chats like this, but to his surprise, he rather enjoyed it.

  “How about you, Del Corwyn? Is that your real name?”

  “I’m afraid so. Delbert Corwyn,” he said with a mock French accent that ignited a giggle in Nora. “I can’t say I was creative with it. Delbert Corwyn, simple as that,” he shrugged. “I’m just Del.”

  Setting her glass on the table, Nora eased her elbows onto her knees, interlaced her fingers, and rested her chin atop them. “I like ‘just Del,’” she murmured.

  Her timeless smile returned.

  Del sipped his wine, a young man once again.

  CHAPTER 11

  WHEN DEL WANTED to relive the classic era in films, he’d grab lunch at a deli near Hollywood Boulevard. He wore short sleeves today, and the sunlight felt balmy against his tanned arms. Dodging locals and tourists, he strolled along the sidewalk and visited his friends, now immortalized through stars implanted along the pavement.

  Several blocks from Mann’s Chinese Theatre, he slid away from the pedestrian traffic and toward the curb, where he stared at a specific star, the one he sought during each visit.

  His star.

  Delbert “Del” Corwyn, with a movie camera icon beneath it.

  He’d received it during a ceremony in 1986. Although his star—that is, the star of his career—had diminished years earlier, he’d hoped the ceremony would revive it somehow.

  It didn’t.

  The event spawned news clips, twenty seconds long, around the country, little blurbs on entertainment segments of local noon newscasts. By the next day, he’d faded into the abyss of the public’s memory.

  Del removed his sunglasses, tucked them above the buttons in the V of his polo shirt, and watched the other pedestrians weave along without giving him a second glimpse. He shook his head in disbelief. Here he stood on Hollywood Boulevard, a celebrity hovering over a star named after him, for crying out loud, and everyone around him was clueless. Not a soul recognized him! They walked right past him, as though he were no longer newsworthy, some poor schlub selling incense in a hippie shop!