Then she noticed a business card with a tagline printed in green letters across the top:
FIND YOUR HAPPINESS. REGAIN YOUR LIFE.
Beneath the tagline, the remaining text was printed in black. It looked like a normal business card. No picture; then again, she wouldn’t have expected one. She perused its next lines.
RUSSELL MERRITT, WELLNESS COACH
Online guidance to accommodate your schedule and needs.
A wellness coach? She’d heard of them but always wondered who sought their advice.
Nora had battled waves of depression ever since fame arrived in her life, yet she hadn’t confided in anyone about it. She didn’t want rumors to travel. Plus, she felt a tinge of shame, along with a measure of embarrassment: Why should she feel down? Millions of people would give their life’s savings to switch places with her.
Another inspection of Russell Merritt’s card.
Nora glanced around the room and, to her relief, found nobody paying attention to her. Lifting the pushpin, she removed the card from the bulletin board and slid it into her pocket. As soon as she removed her hand, a shout startled her.
“Venti skinny hazelnut latte with soy milk for Shelly!”
Shelly. Was that the alias Nora had given the cashier? She’d already forgotten. It was the drink she’d ordered, though.
She found a cozy chair at the far end of the dining area, angled away from most customers and beyond their immediate view, just in case someone happened to study her and figure out who she was. People in Los Angeles were accustomed to celebrities in their midst. They didn’t make a spectacle when they spotted one. Even so, she could sense their tactful stares. If someone recognized her today, she decided, she would bolt. She didn’t feel like being the center of attention, not when she felt like shedding tears.
Settling into the chair, she removed her smart phone from her purse and posted an update to her social media accounts.
The latte burned her throat as it descended. She remembered the business card she’d hidden in her pocket, pulled it out, and gave it another once-over. What could it hurt to visit the guy’s website? Nora rolled her eyes at how ridiculous she felt entering the site address.
Russell Merritt had a pristine, organized website. When she opened his bio page, Nora found a photo of a polished, professional man in a tie and modern eyeglasses. Judging from the hints of gray above his ears, Nora estimated he was in his late forties. She gave him a second perusal. Was it considered unacceptable to find your wellness coach sexy? He looked like a man who had his life together and savored every moment, regardless of how banal or significant it was. Behind the eyeglass frames, his eyes appeared gentle. Understanding.
According to his bio, he had spent the last fifteen years coaching satisfied clients from all walks of life. And sure enough, when she read his coaching policy, she confirmed their interaction would occur online only. They would never need to meet face-to-face.
“This offers many clients the privacy and anonymity they seek,” Nora read.
The first appointment was free, which allowed prospective clients to determine whether the arrangement worked for them before they pursued the relationship further.
Nora was intrigued.
Total anonymity? She had nothing to lose. She could create an alias for herself. This guy would never deduce her true identity. And unlike visiting a psychologist, Nora wouldn’t have to endure the awkwardness of looking this man in the eye, admitting private details to someone who had seen images of her ten feet tall.
Russell Merritt required neither contract nor commitment. If his advice didn’t help, she could move on, no strings attached.
Maybe he would have answers. Stranger things had happened to her.
Following the directions on the website, she created a user account. It didn’t require her to enter a name for the trial session, just an email address, for which she entered the account she used for junk mail. Then she submitted an initial message expressing nothing more than a desire to chat.
She wondered how long she would have to wait for a reply. She assumed it would take twenty-four hours.
CHAPTER 22
UPON RETURNING HOME from her coffee run, Nora grabbed her tablet and fell onto the sofa in her living room. She checked her email for any scripts of interest which her agent might have passed along. Finding none, she opened her Internet browser, surfed a bit, and landed on a website about Eastern religions and philosophies.
She marveled at people who found higher meaning in their lives. Nora wondered if she would ever unlock that type of contentment in her own life, though she kept her search casual, reading material in spare moments like this. Maybe, one day, she would stumble upon a way to escape the sense of isolation that nagged her in the midst of her success.
A notification popped up on her screen. Russell Merritt had responded to her request. According to his message, she could reply to schedule an appointment to chat online, or they could interact by email.
Or, if she was available in the next thirty minutes, they could conduct a live chat immediately. He provided instructions on how to log into his website’s chat program.
Nora checked the clock. It was worth a try.
CAGirl202: Are you there, Mr. Merritt?
She curled her legs beneath her and leaned against the arm of the sofa. Less than a minute later, she heard a chime and, sure enough, his reply appeared.
RMerritt44: Please feel free to call me Russell. Would you prefer me to call you by name?
Nora stopped. She didn’t want to use her real name, but calling her by username seemed silly. Cali Girl? Hold on…
CAGirl202: Call me Callie. I’m the one who emailed you an hour ago.
RMerritt44: Hi Callie. Thanks for reaching out. You didn’t mention any specifics.
CAGirl202: I’ve never contacted a coach before. How discreet is this?
RMerritt44: That’s the primary benefit of this online environment. You can remain as anonymous as you wish. I keep everything confidential, as long as you don’t mention anything illegal.
CAGirl202: Of course not. I just meant I need to stay discreet.
RMerritt44: Understood. I have several clients in that situation.
CAGirl202: So how does this work? Do I spill my guts and you take it from there?
RMerritt44: Some clients consider me a good sounding board. Others seek ways to advance their careers or general well-being. Do you have a particular goal?
CAGirl202: Honestly? I’m not sure why I contacted you. I have a great life. My career is on track. In fact, you could say it’s on a fast track. I have every reason to be happy.
RMerritt44: But you’re not?
Nora squirmed in her seat. Was she happy? Logic told her she should be.
CAGirl202: Do you know how it feels to know you *should* be happy, but you can’t quite get there?
RMerritt44: So you seek contentment?
CAGirl202: Maybe.
RMerritt44: And perhaps a larger perspective on the meaning of life?
Nora found herself growing more comfortable with him.
CAGirl202: I have this yearning inside me that nobody else can see. I don’t like not having answers. It makes me feel like I don’t have control of my own life, and I’m used to being in control.
RMerritt44: What do you do for a living?
She bit her lip. With a groan, she hedged her answer.
CAGirl202: I can’t go into much detail. Let’s say I’m in the public eye. Will that suffice?
RMerritt44: It makes much more sense. Not only do you face your own internal pressure, but you have expectations placed on you by those around you. For most people, it’s a handful of others placing those expectations on them. You, however, are trying to please thousands of people?
CAGirl202: At least.
RMerritt44: Yet you yearn to remain true to yourself. Perhaps this public image arose before you had a chance to figure out who “yourself” is.
What a relief!
He understood her predicament without knowing the details. This might be the outlet that would help.
CAGirl202: My career shot ahead so fast, I’m trying to figure out how to live in a new world.
RMerritt44: And that can feel quite lonely.
CAGirl202: Yes, it can. I’ve never admitted that to anyone.
RMerritt44: You reached out to me. That marks a first step.
CAGirl202: I don’t know what I need to figure out, but I could see this coaching relationship being helpful. I’d like to continue chatting with you. How does that work?
RMerritt44: You can always try to reach me instantly if it’s urgent. However, in most cases, we schedule an appointment time and then message each other, the way we did today.
CAGirl202: And how do you get paid?
RMerritt44: You’ll find a link on my website. Like most online vendors, the transaction occurs via a secure third party.
CAGirl202: I figured that might be the case.
RMerritt44: And because of that, you maintain as much anonymity as you wish. I don’t keep any personal information or credit card numbers online. Not even your name.
Nora grinned.
Perfect.
CHAPTER 23
THE REALTOR WAS right. It didn’t take long for Del’s home to sell.
Del’s mind stirred as he considered the possibilities surrounding his discovery of Marilyn’s script. Granted, no guarantees existed in Hollywood, but this was a lock if he ever saw one. The question was how to handle it. Who knew how long it might take to negotiate the details and see this project through production?
In the meantime, reality loomed large.
While en route to his agent’s office, Del’s phone rang. He’d established a Bluetooth connection to his car stereo speaker and wore an earpiece. If the cops caught him holding his phone while driving in California, they’d nail his ass. He didn’t need bad publicity.
“I have a buyer for you, Mr. Corwyn,” the realtor said, his voice breaking across the phone connection. “And he’s agreed to your asking price.”
Del swerved his car. The driver beside him slammed on her horn. Del couldn’t believe his ears.
“That never happens! Not from what I’ve heard.”
“And he’s willing to buy it sight unseen.”
“Is he nuts?”
The realtor’s chuckle sounded tinny through Del’s phone. Del wished Felicia were sitting beside him to listen in.
It was the fourth time she’d crossed his mind that day.
“No,” the realtor replied, “he’s a businessman from Belgium, the CEO for a worldwide corporation. The man has an enormous ego and a penchant for American pop culture. He’s enamored with the idea of purchasing a celebrity’s home. Bragging rights, you might say.”
“Sounds like he has more money than sense.”
“Nevertheless, Mr. Corwyn, you have an offer. As you might imagine, the likelihood of any future offers coming in at the asking price is rather slim.”
Del was shell-shocked at the news. He hadn’t expected an offer so soon, and certainly not at the list price. His realtor was right. This wouldn’t happen again, and he needed to sell. The Marilyn script would bring a windfall, but he didn’t know if it would provide enough to maintain his current lifestyle for the duration of his life.
He would need to hurry and find a home in Florida.
“This happened so fast,” Del said. “I haven’t begun searching for a new house. You said the buyer is in Europe?”
“Yes, he plans to reside in the United States part-time, whenever he conducts business here. That, and it’s a vacation home for him.”
“So he isn’t relocating? He isn’t in a rush?”
“I didn’t get that impression.”
“Could we negotiate into the contract that I could continue to live in this home—with rent, of course—for three months after closing? It would give me time to search.”
“I believe the buyer would be willing to work with you on that.”
He needed to take advantage of the opportunity while he could. Del eased to a red light and sighed.
“Tell him I accept his offer.”
CHAPTER 24
“THIS IS URGENT, you said?”
Arnie Clemmons, Del’s agent, shut the door and settled into his leather chair, which had cracked along the seams. The window blinds were open and exposed a view of the parking lot from the office’s second-story roost.
Arnie had managed to salvage his hair along the bottom half of his head, but his bald dome looked waxy as sunlight glinted upon it. A man in his late fifties, Arnie’s roster featured a variety of former A-list talent that had fallen from their perches but whose reputations remained respectable around town.
“I have an intriguing prospect for a new film,” Del replied as he took a seat. He tapped the manila envelope tucked under his arm, which contained Marilyn’s script.
He could’ve sworn he caught Arnie in the onset of an eye roll brought to a sudden halt.
“What kind of project?”
“A pop-culture type of thing. You could say it has a retro feel to it.”
Arnie sighed. “Del, I realize you like to relive the past—”
“This is a winner, Arnie. I guarantee it.”
“And what does this winning project involve?”
“Marilyn Monroe. It’s a screenplay.”
“With all due respect, isn’t that a bit clichéd? This would need to be an angle no one else has covered. Many people have done films about Marilyn Monroe, not to mention books and memorabilia and everything else under the sun.”
“You don’t understand. This isn’t about Marilyn Monroe.” Del felt a surge of adrenaline and couldn’t contain himself. He leaned forward and, with great pomp, planted the thick package on Arnie’s desk. It landed with a thump. “It’s by Marilyn Monroe.”
Arnie sat open-mouthed as he tried to follow along. His eyes widened in perplexity. ”By Marilyn Monroe,” he repeated.
“That’s right.”
“Del, what the hell are you talking about?”
With a lighthearted laugh, Del eased back into the chair. “Last night, I rummaged through some boxes I’d stored away long ago. Hadn’t looked through them in years. Relics from my heyday. Things I’d forgotten I’d saved. And at the bottom of one of those boxes, I found this.”
He patted the envelope, which crinkled at his touch.
“It’s a script, given to me in 1962.” Del caught Arnie’s eye to make sure the man paid full attention. “Written by Marilyn Monroe.”
CHAPTER 25
ARNIE SHOT HIM a skeptical glare, then leaned back in his leather chair. The chair squeaked under his medium-size ass. “And somehow, you have possession of it? Something she wrote?”
“We were close friends.”
“I’ve never heard a word about her writing a screenplay. Not even a rumor.”
“She kept it a secret, but she considered herself a true artist. She was shrewd, and had growing ambitions. Remember her film contract, the one that included a provision for films to be produced under her own company, Marilyn Monroe Productions?”
“Marilyn wasn’t a writer.”
“But she was married to one. Arthur Miller, remember? He influenced her.”
Del handed the envelope to Arnie, who grimaced as he took it in hand.
Arnie waved the package with an attitude of indifference. Skepticism continued to fill his glare. “And this is the script?”
“Yes.”
”Marilyn’s script?”
“Yes, Arnie.”
With a sigh, Arnie stared at the envelope, then unsealed it, removed the brass-fastened screenplay, and stared at it as if it were a bowl of cauliflower.
Arnie read the title aloud. ”Beautiful Mess.”
Del watched his every move as he scanned the document’s title page and flipped through the first few pages.
“This is a photocopy.”
“I put the origina
l in a safe-deposit box. I made one photocopy for you, one for me.”
“Unfortunately, we can’t prove this isn’t a hoax, can we? You say it came from her, but how could we prove it? That’s the first question anyone would ask.” Arnie furrowed his brow and held the script closer. “And what are these little boxes in the corners? The ones with smudges in them?”
“Those are the proof it’s a Marilyn Monroe original: her thumbprints.”
“The quality doesn’t look too good.”
“It’s just a photocopy. They’re crisp on the original. Ink from a stamp pad.”
“And these thumbprints are here for what reason?”
“She wrote me this letter in 1962.” Del pulled a photocopy of Marilyn’s letter from the breast pocket of his blazer, unfolded it, and slid it across the desk. “It explains how the thumbprints prove the original came from her.”
Arnie scanned the letter, then examined the script closer. He raised an eyebrow.
“And her thumbprint is the only fingerprint that exists inside these boxes?”
“I assume so. I was careful not to touch them. And according to Marilyn, she was afraid to show the document to anyone else. That would prevent any other prints from interfering with hers.”
Arnie rapped his knuckle upon the desk and shot Del a tentative gaze. Del watched the man’s skepticism subside as he reread the letter’s body.
“Smart move on her part,” he said. “She certainly covered her bases.”
Del nodded. “She wasn’t the dumb blond that she played on the silver screen. Consider how well she constructed her public persona. The woman knew how to strategize and think ahead.”
Del caught the first hint of a grin at the corner of Arnie’s mouth and knew his agent was on board.
“My only question,” Del said, “is how we could verify her fingerprints.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Arnie shrugged. “I’m sure they have her prints on file from the autopsy. Given the circumstances surrounding her death and who she was, they would have wanted official confirmation of her identity to eliminate the possibility of foul play. For the record, if nothing else. And her death predated all that HIPAA crap, so the prints are probably floating all over God’s green earth. We’d just need to hire someone credible who can verify that it’s an authentic match. At that point, we hold all the bargaining chips when it comes to making a deal.”
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