And they grew up faster today. Oh, the tricks they taught him in bed!
Twelve inches of memory foam hugged Del’s body as he arched his back and stretched. A grin crept across his face as he tossed back the down comforter and stepped to the floor.
Facing the glass door to his bedroom balcony, he placed his hands against the small of his back, eased himself into a straight posture, then gave himself a careful twist at the waist to work the cricks from his lower back. Part of his daily routine. He felt something snap and, once again, felt as young as he did when he was in his twenties.
Seventy-eight years old? Fuck that. Del’s cheeks remained as smooth as a young Cary Grant’s ass.
The speed at which the sun rose and the sky deepened to blue never ceased to mesmerize him. Del glanced at the glass door, where he kept his window curtains open overnight. From beside his bed, he saw nothing but azure, which drew him closer.
Even in Malibu, which he’d called home since hitting it big, January temperatures were crisp at this time of day. But that first blast of morning air invigorated his body. So according to his daily routine, he shuffled across the room, threw open the door, then stepped out to the balcony. Del slept in the buff, and he could already feel the tingle of the chilly California air nip at his bare skin. Nobody could see him from here. He’d spent many nights stargazing naked from this balcony.
He closed his eyes and absorbed the sound of Pacific breakers. From his perch high upon a mountain and far away from the individuals who lived in their little houses along the Pacific Coast Highway—their homes reminded him of the tool shed his father had built in their Nebraska backyard during Del’s childhood—Del marveled at the ocean, a sliver of which glistened beneath the rising sun. As he peered down the mountainside, he admired its rocky surface covered in wild, rugged green growth and acknowledged, yet again, why he considered this state his land of milk and honey.
A sharp gust rushed in from the Pacific and caused goose bumps to prickle across his arms and legs. Del scurried back inside.
He padded down the hallway, descended a curving staircase, and cut across the living room into his kitchen, where the aroma of double-strength coffee made his stomach grumble. With his coffeemaker programmed to brew at seven o’clock, a fresh pot of Jamaican blue-mountain roast awaited him. He poured himself a cup, added a splash of soy milk, then closed his eyes to savor the first taste. Del focused on its warmth as it raced down his gullet and across his stomach lining. Yes, he’d enjoyed countless cups of coffee in the morning, just past daybreak, and while his evenings might not have been carbon copies of each other, his mornings were identical. The mornings he woke up alone, that is.
Strolling into his library, Del gazed at shelf after shelf of literature. He’d collected rare editions of classics, those editions printed a century ago by America’s earliest publishers, although he had a particular love for Tolstoy and would have invested a chunk of his own fortune for one of the first copies printed this side of the Atlantic. But he loved to read modern fiction, from literary greats like Steinbeck to suspense by John Grisham to romance by Nora Roberts. Del devoured books, visualizing himself portraying the male protagonists, on a quest for his perfect comeback role.
He’d entertained many guests in the living room. Once, he’d opened a fine, aged bourbon while swapping industry war stories with John Wayne. A month after purchasing his home, he and Kim Novak had sipped a smooth, Bordeaux merlot as a Miles Davis record played on the phonograph. And, of course, Marilyn Monroe had visited on many occasions, though a romantic encounter had never occurred between them here. But numerous romantic encounters had taken place in this living room, on every piece of furniture and in every nook and cranny imaginable. Oh, the stories his shag carpet could have told if he hadn’t remodeled the room several times since he’d shagged upon it! Today, the room possessed a retro charm, a return to the decade in which he’d first arrived in Hollywood. Rich mahogany details surrounded leather furniture as soft as butter.
Invigorated, Del downed a final gulp of coffee, curious to see how life would surprise him before bedtime came around.
* * *
Donning a track suit with reflective stripes along its sides, Del left the house for his five-mile run through the winding streets of his neighborhood, past homes once unseen by the general public, but now viewable from the sky through satellite photos on the Internet.
Del’s street resembled a cul-de-sac turned inside out, where people could see each others’ homes in the near distance but only saw one another when entering or leaving the private road. Del passed the driveway of one neighbor, a music producer, and curved his way to the next street.
Del inhaled as the first bead of perspiration dripped from his brow. Amid his routines, he regained his footing in life and sensed he was on the verge of a dawning point in his career.
Del selected his acting projects with care and precision. He’d acquired a reputation for being a true artist at heart, but this was show business, and much of show business could be a mirage, a fabrication derived from image and spin. Sure, the public perceived him as choosy and elusive—but Del certainly hadn’t chosen that arrangement.
The truth was, Del Corwyn’s talent hadn’t been in demand for forty years. Not since an Academy Award eluded him at the height of his career.
After a string of box-office hits, critics called Del Corwyn a commercial success but an artistic lightweight. Determined to prove them wrong, he won the coveted role as a Mafia hit man who suffered a life-threatening injury on the streets of New Jersey, where an impoverished family found him and treated his wounds. After returning to health, the Mafia man underwent a personal renaissance, shedding copious tears and dedicating his life to helping children plant gardens in urban neighborhoods. Unfortunately, Del’s character was murdered in a quaint little herb garden because, as conventional wisdom warns, nobody leaves the mob.
Del’s performance brought critics and audiences to tears. The Oscar was considered his to lose—until he lost to Richard Dreyfuss, who, as of 1978, became the youngest man to win the Best Actor statue for The Goodbye Girl.
Silly Del, mused Del’s detractors in their perfect 20/20 hindsight. He should have worked with Neil Simon.
That Oscar loss cost Del his career.
Yet once the Oscar nomination enhanced his status, Del’s fans assumed he had morphed into an artist with discerning taste. He was a man who took rare roles, only as a featured player with the special “and” billing beneath the film title, or cameo roles on television during sweep weeks, which caused viewership to skyrocket.
Industry insiders knew, however, his public persona didn’t match his private reality. Shunned by peers, they seldom took Del’s calls.
At least the general public thought he was a winner, even if he knew better.
His mouth dry, Del swallowed and gained traction up an incline. Wiping perspiration from his face with the underside of his forearm, he focused on maintaining a steady breathing pattern. He hated running but refused to sacrifice his trim figure.
He examined the veins along the underside of his arm and swore they appeared more prominent, a darker shade of purple, than when he was young. Yet another telltale sign of aging which he preferred to ignore.
Del craved a comeback. A return to glory. A breakthrough role that would earn him that elusive Oscar win and seal his career. Del Corwyn would die a legend!
Returning home, he showered and fixed himself a smoothie filled with organic milk and Greek yogurt, protein powder, flax seed, honey, and a trio of berries. Firing up his laptop, which he kept on his kitchen table for the sake of convenience, he logged into his Twitter account and typed the first thing that popped into his mind.
Finished daily run. Homemade smoothie. Ready 4 the day. #success
He punctuated it with a thumbs-up emoji and posted his status update. With a click to his profile, he eyed his count, which stood at 547,000 followers. Thousands of people who wanted to hear what he
was having for breakfast! When he’d first heard young actors speak of tweeting and followers and such on the late-night talk shows, the concept had made little sense to him. What a surprise to discover the speed at which he could follow the latest trends in social media and learn how to use the tools of the trade! Then again, he had plenty of time on his hands.
Technology these days! With one click, he could broadcast his status across a personal kingdom of social media accounts!
After taking a cursory look at the news, he hopped over to a website which consolidated the latest updates in the entertainment industry and the deals that had closed in the last twenty-four hours. While he respected a portion of the emerging talent, he considered much of young Hollywood soulless, lacking substance, eager for fifteen minutes of notoriety. Fame seemed to carry a shorter shelf life these days. Granted, directors no longer pounded on Del’s door, but after half a century in this business, at least people still knew who he was. Twenty years from now, Kesha could only hope for that.
Del felt a grin, tight and self-satisfied, ease across his face as he closed the browser.
He hadn’t lost this battle.
His day would come.
CHAPTER 2
ORIGINALLY AN EXCLUSIVE evening club for top celebrities, Morocco Night first opened for business during Hollywood’s golden era. From what Del heard, W.C. Fields enjoyed getting hammered here. By the early seventies, it was no longer the hot spot, but old Hollywood still frequented the place to relive their glory days. The dress code required men to wear a suit and tie, and the exorbitant menu prices helped ensure that patrons from undesired echelons would not invade the ranks of the clientele. Del loved the cuisine at Morocco Night. Its chefs drew upon influences from all corners of the world. But some nights, he stopped by for an expensive drink in the lounge. He had carried on countless conversations here with David Niven and Eli Wallach, before the actors passed away.
Each time he walked through the intricate, wood-carved doors of Morocco Night, Del surged to life. The club imported its furniture from the mother country. Patrons had their choice of various dining lounges, each decorated in a unique flavor.
Veering left, he made his way to his favorite room, which featured four-chair clusters around small coffee tables. He took a seat at an empty table, which wasn’t difficult to find. Tonight the club was near desolate, as was often the case during the workweek nowadays. With a furtive glance around the room, he found it speckled with a few patrons, none of whom were regulars, except a former producer whose demeanor Del had always found irritating. Del planned to ignore him.
“Good evening, Mr. Corwyn. What may I bring you tonight?” asked Franklin, an aging waiter donned in a tuxedo and starched white shirt, as Del took a seat at a small coffee table. The man had worked at Morocco Night for as long as Del could remember. Del had watched his parted hair transition from Italian black to salt-and-pepper to smooth silver.
“Hello, Franklin. A Manhattan, please.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the waiter with a slight bow. “I trust your evening is going well?”
Del nodded in response. When the waiter departed, Del eased back in the chair and dreamed of the taste of strong, expensive bourbon that would soon wash over his palette.
Bright orange walls contrasted with splashes of turquoise and gold in the draperies. Turquoise pottery accented the environment. Del found the room dim yet inviting. In lieu of overhead lights, tiny lamps sat atop the tables and throughout the room. The tables and chairs were sculpted in blond wood and possessed the comfortable charm of a home in Africa, while royal-blue seat cushions ignited the lounge with the magnetic pull of the exotic. Tony Bennett’s voice crooned from Bose speakers hidden among the decor.
When his drink arrived, Del sipped the honey-colored delight and savored the sensation as it raced toward his veins.
That was when he recognized her.
The median age at Morocco Night had to be eighty-five, though if you were to believe the face lifts and half of its patrons’ claims, you might downgrade that average to seventy-four.
Either way, the young actress didn’t belong here.
He’d caught several of her films. And Del never missed an issue of Variety. He knew for a fact she was only twenty-five. So why was she sitting in this retirement home of Hollywood’s golden elite?
Yet there she was. And she sat alone.
In general, Del preferred not to date anyone under age twenty-six. Blame it on his scruples. Yet something about this young actress fit. Draped in a midnight-blue dress that hugged her form, she possessed an understated sex appeal that would have personified Morocco Night during its heyday. Without a second thought, Del eased from the chair, gave his body a subtle twist at the waist to chase the minor stiffness from his back, then strolled across the room to her table.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but I hate to see a woman drink alone.”
CHAPTER 3
NORA JUMELLE PEERED up from her whiskey sour. Her hair was raven, its gloss youthful, as though God had stroked it with baby oil.
Her eyes, a steely gray, enraptured him. He’d heard of gray eyes but had never seen them firsthand. He felt his libido stir but stifled the thought. He appreciated women but wasn’t a dirty old man.
She set her drink on the table and appraised him through wary eyes. Younger women always sized him up this way when he approached them. Del would fool nobody by dying his hair or attempting to hide his age, so he allowed its dark silver to emerge in all its glory. And though, at first glance, these ladies knew he was an older man, Del knew their second glances ushered in a hint of his irresistibility, which was his strong suit. Nobody was coldhearted enough to tell a silver-haired man to fuck off, which always improved the chances of their giving him that second glance. How had he gotten so lucky?
Nora leaned forward, which betrayed her curiosity.
“You’re Nora Jumelle?” Del offered a winning smile.
She crossed her legs away from him but continued to appraise him.
“I didn’t expect anyone to recognize me here, of all places.”
“Del Corwyn,” he said as he reached out for her right hand. He’d held his drink high with his left hand so she would notice the absence of a wedding band.
She allowed him to plant a light kiss on her fingers but her eyes widened, as though he had caught her off guard. Maybe she was too stunned to stop him. She gave him a quizzical look.
“Del who?” she said.
“Del Corwyn,” he repeated with a smirk, then waited for the recognition to sink in.
Nora’s eyes narrowed as she attempted to place his name. After a few moments of silence, she tilted her chin upward. Her countenance remained unchanged.
“I’m embarrassed to say this, but I can’t place the name. Have we met…Del?” she replied, adding emphasis to his name in afterthought, the way you would when you wanted to let someone know their name hadn’t escaped your memory already.
This was awkward. Granted, he’d stayed out of the spotlight for many years, but he’d received an Academy Award nomination! Was she too young to recognize him? Del’s greatest fear was to fade into the abyss of irrelevance, where nobody remembered who you were—or cared why they should remember in the first place.
Guarding his composure, he decided to forge ahead, his confidence intact. “No, we haven’t met. I’ve been around the industry, but I’m afraid we’ve never had the privilege of working together.”
Her eyes brightened. “Oh! You’re a director?”
Hmm. “An actor. I was nominated for an Oscar in 1978, actually.”
“Oh,” she murmured, lifting her glass for another sip. As her gaze lingered, the narrowness dissolved from her eyes. Del could tell he was back in the game, even if she didn’t know who the hell he was. Her softening countenance indicated she hadn’t ruled him out.
“May I join you?”
She offered a lighthearted chuckle in response, as though unsure how to respond to th
is older man, yet her eyes never left his. Nora continued to appraise him. With her forearms on the arms of her chair, she gestured to an empty chairs. “Be my guest.”
Nora had an alluring smile, a contagious grin that brought a gleam to her face. Del slipped into the chair beside her. Because the chairs were the size you might find in a living room, the proximity didn’t strike him as an invasion of her personal space.
“So you were a nominee?” she asked.
“Best Supporting Actor. Dreyfuss won that year.”
“Is it true what they say, that it’s an honor just to be nominated?”
“As I recall, you came quite close to finding the answer yourself. Your performance was brilliant in Faces. To portray a character in such a riveting way in your debut role is impressive. You should have been nominated that year.” Just a few short years ago.
“I doubt I’ll win one of those,” she replied.
Del dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “I beg to disagree. Besides, the public adores you. You’ve had nothing but commercial success ever since.”
“Why do you think that is, Del?”
Del felt his pupils widen as a connection formed between them. “Probably because you’re gorgeous.”
She smirked. “And you’re relentless.”
“Too forward?”
Bashful, Nora replied, “Don’t worry, it’s cool. I’ll take it as a compliment.”
With a glance around the room, Del returned his attention to the striking young woman beside him, with the raven hair and those stunning gray eyes. “So what is a beautiful woman like you doing in a geezer place like this?”
Another smirk as she lodged her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “Why do you ask? Am I in imminent danger? Are you here to rescue me?”
“You never know what might happen in a crowd like this,” he snickered. Eyeing the near-empty room again, he spotted a frosty-haired couple who had come in and occupied a corner table. Del leaned toward Nora and nodded toward the couple. “You see those two over there?”
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