marilyn [h.s.]

chapter nine

The sun filtered through the filmy curtains, arousing the superstar Marilyn Monroe from slumber. She’d gotten home from her escapades with Harry very late—well, early, the previous morning, and the sun was well into the sky by now. Arthur’s note that she had found previously lay in it’s spot. Off to the airport. See you in a week.

No, I love you. Or no, I’m sorry.

Just See you in a week.

Yet it didn’t bother her. Somehow the sun was brighter today, somehow it was more vibrant and vivid and crisp and everything just looked and smelled and tasted better than ever before, and she didn’t know why. She felt refreshed, she felt safe, she felt comfortable and not on the edge; she felt like she could breathe and dance if she wanted to and that was something she had not felt in a very long time.

There was silence in the hotel room; silence so heavy but it wasn’t really silence, it was just white noise. The wind blew through the room, sort of like a sweet caress or a whisper spoken hushedly into one’s ear. The vacumn from the housekeeping services hummed outside the door faintly; it smelled like apple danishes and coffee. There was a lingering smell and taste of mint; she realized with a sappy giggle that it was Harry’s cologne, tucked into her arms, cocooned by the scarf he had let her keep the previous night. It was beautiful, really, waking up with nothing but his scarf and a reminder that she had no plans for today- no interviews, no appointments, no events, except for the one with Gemma at-

“Oh, my gosh,” she said loudly as she sat bolt upright, whipping her head around to see the clock read 9:49. Swearing, she leaped out of bed, grabbed the nearest dress, and dashed into the washroom. “Damn, damn, damn, damn,” she repeated again and again and again, knocking over her foundation in the process and watching in agony as it spilt all over the countertop. “Why does this always happen to me?”

--

“Now, Devon, you only can watch television for an hour, you hear me?” Gemma instructed her son as he perched on the edge of the ottoman, enchanted with the sweeping saga of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. “Devon,” she repeated firmly, hoping to get an assented nod from him, in the very least.

Apparently Dopey was much more important that his own mother, for no response was given. Sighing, Gemma turned away from the TV and back to Harry, handing him a recipe for the pasta she wanted him to make. “Make this, with a salad and some mashed potatoes. You do know where the salad spinner is, don’t you? And you might have to run down to Chip’s to grab some Caesar dressing, I’m not sure if I picked any up on Monday.” Scampering into the kitchen, Gemma glanced into the mirror above the sink and groaned as she saw the mess her hair was in. “Also, Jerry will be by at 4:30 to pick up Devon… He’s going out to dinner with him and Margarita at 6:00… Devon will be back at 11:00 tomorrow morning for the rectory’s study on Galatians.” Throwing a glance back at her brother, who was still staring at the recipe like it might move, she snapped, “Can you do all that?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” he murmured softly, eyes scanning over the paper before flitting up to meet hers. “What’s the time?”

“It’s 9:56,” she said sharply, rummaging through a drawer to find her lipstick. “Goddamn, where did I put that?”

“Jar!” Devon screeched from the other room, quick to snatch a few dollars from his mum on the accidental obscenity that slipped out.

“Gemma,” Harry whispered softly, taking a step closer and locking his arms around her. “Your lips look perfect; they’re the perfect natural color. Of course I’ll make dinner, I’ll get the Caesar if I need to, and Devon will be fine hanging out with me until Jerry comes to pick him up. Besides, it’s only 9:53, you’ll have plenty of time to get too the Mayfield, it’s only a block away.”