LimeLight (35 page)
Authors: Melody Carlson
“That might make it better.”
“Are you comfortable talking about family things in front of Caroline?”
“I’m sure she knows as much about our family as anyone. Didn’t you tell her everything when you were girls?”
“Maybe…”
So it’s decided. We will meet at nine thirty Monday morning. I offer to pick the two of them up, but Violet suggests they hire Roberto to drive them to my house instead. She still doesn’t trust me. Perhaps she thinks I plan to kidnap her or maybe that I’m going to drive us all off a cliff like in that strange movie
Thelma & Louise.
Then Violet, in a slightly cynical tone, asks if she should dress warmly, and I assure her that the heat is back on. As soon as I hang up, someone knocks on my door. I just hope it’s not Bea. I do want to straighten things out with her. Just not right now. I brace myself as I open the door.
“Special delivery,” Garth says with a wide grin.
“What?”
“The art we’re swapping. I was enjoying the vibrancy your paintings brought to the gallery, and I got to thinking about you here with your empty walls, and I felt guilty. Celia wrote up
some on-loan contracts this morning. Not as involved as the consignment ones, but if you’ll look them over and sign them, I’ll bring in the art and put it up for you.”
So just like that, I have art and life and color again. I thank Garth for thinking of me, and to my surprised relief, I discover that I like his paintings nearly as much as the ones I’m forced to let go. Perhaps in time I will like his art even more.
Knowing that I’m having visitors tomorrow inspires me to dust and straighten my house. I want everything to be vastly different from the last time Violet was here. I even get the fireplace ready for a cheerful fire—and I get my hands dirty and open the flue.
Finally it’s nine o’clock and everything seems to be in its place. My reward for my effort, besides a tidy house, is to sit down with the last of Gavin’s letters to my mother. There are only a few left. And the main topic seems to be God and what happens when we die.
Dear Mother,
I wish I had the sort of faith that you described in your last letter. I can’t imagine getting up one morning and suddenly believing that not only is there a God but that he is smiling upon me, ready to welcome me with open arms. That’s not the God I heard about when I was growing up. The God my father preached about was an angry God. He hated sin and sent sinners to hell,
where they gnashed their teeth and cried for millions of years. Naturally, according to my father’s theology, I would be among them. So I quit believing in things like heaven or hell. I suppose I never completely quit believing in God, since that was ingrained in me. But I began to believe that if I did enough good things, if I treated people fairly, did my best, lived honorably… that God might reconsider sending me to hell when the time came. I’m sure that must sound silly. It even does to me. But it was the best I could do. Now I’m not so sure. I think I need something more. I’m just not sure how to go about it. Enlighten me.
Love always,
Gavin
As I fold the letter and replace it in the envelope, I consider Gavin’s theory about God and heaven. As far as I know, Gavin was always a good man, an honorable man. In an industry with more than its fair share of scoundrels, Gavin’s reputation in Hollywood was sterling, the gold standard even. And if dear Gavin was worried about not making it to heaven, I hate to imagine where I might be sent when my time comes.
Of course, I’ve never been inclined to believe anything the least bit religious. I’ve always felt life is what you make it. That’s all. But now as I read Gavin’s letters, which appear to be written in all sincerity, I am not so sure. And as I consider how many
things in my life have recently been turned upside down, I think there is the distinct possibility that even more surprises could be in store.
The next two letters include a number of questions about whether faith is a gift or something we must fabricate in ourselves, whether the Bible is really “the inspired word of God” or just a historical document, and whether or not a loving God could really send “innocent people to hell.” All good questions, I suppose, but not the sort of thing I would have ever given much thought. Still, Gavin was always a deep thinker. He always looked at all sides of a story. Some say that’s what made him such a brilliant director.
Finally I have the last letter in my hand. Its date is March of 2002, just one month before Gavin’s death.
Dear Mother,
Something amazing happened to me yesterday. You know how I’ve been pestering you with so many questions and how hard it’s been for me to grasp the concept of faith. Yet you keep telling me that faith is a gift from God. You even wrote down the Scripture reference. And yet I could not get that through my thick head. Yesterday I was out in the yard, just sitting in the sunshine having a glass of iced tea, enjoying the sounds of the birds in the trees, the flowers, the air…and suddenly something happened inside of me. It was as if something
inside me just clicked, or as if the hand of God turned the key that unlocked the door. I’m not even sure how to describe it because it is nearly indescribable. But I knew—I absolutely knew that God was real, that he loved me, and that he has made the way for me to enter into heaven. Just like you’ve been telling me, just like the Bible says. I knew all I had to do was to believe and to receive. So very, very simple. Isn’t it just like you’d been telling me? Faith really is a gift that only God can give. And now it is a done deal. My soul is at peace. Thank you for helping me on this journey, dear woman. If I do not see you again in this earthly life, I do look forward to giving you a great big hug in heaven. What do you know!
Love eternally,
Gavin
While this letter does not surprise me, I do find it deeply unsettling. Primarily because it seems that both Gavin and my mother discovered something that seems just outside my reach. Suddenly I feel like that young girl who wanted it all—the fancy dresses, the expensive jewelry, the luxury cars, the beautiful mansions—and always it remained just beyond my reach. But then I grew up and took my life into my own hands. I did what it took to get what I wanted, and I thought that it worked.
But now I am not so sure. Now, I find myself back in that same place again—still reaching, still grasping, still wanting… never enough. Sometimes I think my curse in this life is never to be satisfied. Perhaps it will be my curse in the afterlife as well.
Or maybe what Gavin said in that final letter was true. Maybe faith really is a gift from God. But if that’s the case, what must I do to get God to give it to me?
I
wake up earlier than usual on Monday—a good thing, for I have much to do. I quickly but carefully dress, and then I go next door and knock on Bea’s door. It’s just a little before nine, but because Bea made herself comfortable knocking on my door at odd hours, I think I should be safe.
She opens the door, then blinks in surprise. She is wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe and her hair sticks out in all directions. “Claudette?”
“I am sorry to disturb you like this, but I just wanted to say some things.”
“What?”
“First of all, I want to apologize for how I reacted yesterday… when you told me about my mother…and my father…”
She waves her hand. “Oh, pish posh, who could blame you? I’m sure it was a shocking thing to hear. I could’ve told it a bit more gently. I’ve never been accused of being very restrained. My husband used to say I had hoof-and-mouth disease.”
“What?”
“Meaning I was always sticking my hoof in my mouth.”
“Oh…well, I gave what you told me some thought, and I realized that, as hard as it was to hear, you must’ve been telling me the truth. Not only that, but I should have been more grateful, Bea. I most appreciate that, even though you were a child, you were very thoughtful of my mother and her situation… You cared enough to protect her. I thank you for that.”
“Well, I—I just don’t know what to say.”
“Now I should get back to my house. I’ve invited Violet to come over for coffee this morning. I want to talk to her about, well, what you told me.”
Bea nods with a serious expression. “I expect that’ll be a good thing for both of you.” Then she grins. “Maybe you’d like some pumpkin nut bread to go with your coffee. I just happen to have an extra loaf. Could you use it?”
“That sounds very nice, Bea.”
“Come in out of the cold while I go get it.”
Now I’m not so sure that I really want to go inside her house. Yet I am curious. And once inside, I’m not surprised that Bea’s house, like her, is a mishmash of clashing colors and unrelated styles. She also appears to have a fondness for cheesy porcelain figurines and knickknacks. Shelves cover her walls, filled with all sorts of things. I hate to imagine what would happen if we ever experienced an earthquake up here.
“Here you go.” She hands me a foil-wrapped loaf. “Tell your sister hello for me.”
“I will. Thank you for this.” I make my way to the door.
“And I’m holding you to your promise, Claudette.”
“What’s that?” I turn and peer at her.
“You know, for happy hour. You said we’d have wine and cheese some night around fiveish. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Oh yes.” I nod uneasily. “That’s right.”
As I walk back to my house, I consider my “happy hour” promise. What could I have been thinking? Still, I have more pressing matters to focus on now. I will think about Bea another day.
I do one last check of my house. I want everything to be as perfect as possible. I light a fire, making sure it’s venting properly up the chimney, and then I go to the kitchen and make coffee. I get out my sterling tray and set out my Limoges cups and saucers, cream and sugar, spoons and napkins. I carefully slice the pumpkin bread and arrange it on a Limoges plate as well. Then I check the clock. It’s nine forty. Only ten minutes late… I know I shouldn’t be concerned. After all, I’ve been known to be two hours late to a party in the past, fashionably late. Yet for some reason it doesn’t strike me as either fashionable or polite now.
Then I see a dark green van pulling up with the words
McLachlan Manor
on the side. Violet gets out, then Roberto helps Caroline out. He peers at the house as if he’d like to come in and see today’s carnival sideshow, but he just gets back into the van. He doesn’t drive away. They probably asked him to wait.
My palms feel sweaty as I slowly walk to the front door. I have entertained movie stars, producers, directors, dignitaries… all with less stress than I’m feeling right now. I take in a deep breath, then slowly release it. Then, pasting what I hope is a congenial smile onto my face, I open the door and greet them.
“Thank you for coming,” I say in my most gracious voice.
They both look at me curiously as they say a cautious, “Hello,” and step inside. It feels as if they expect my head to begin spinning or some other such nonsense.
“May I take your coats?” I ask, still smiling.
“Thanks.” Caroline slips off her parka and hands it to me.
“I’ll keep mine on,” says Violet.
Caroline is examining the photo montage. “Is that Shelley Winters?”
“Yes. And that’s Rita Hayworth, Joan Crawford, Lana Turner…” And I go through the list of celebrities.
“You were really friends with all those people?” Caroline just shakes her head. “I wish I’d had a better idea about this when I was younger. I might’ve come down to visit you.”
I nod. “I wish I’d thought to invite you.”
“Really…” Violet looks skeptical.
“Would you like to see the rest of the house?” I offer, thinking it might be a good distraction or icebreaker or something.
“Did you hire someone to clean things up?” asks Violet.
“Actually, a couple of friends helped out. But I am trying to do it myself.”
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” says Caroline. “This is much classier than it used to be. I mean, your mom always kept it nice and cozy and comfortable, but this is, well, very sophisticated.”
“It’s easy to be sophisticated when you have money,” says Violet.
“And taste,” adds Caroline. “I’ve seen rich people with the tackiest taste.”
“Actually, I don’t have money anymore,” I admit while we’re standing in the kitchen.
Violet looks unconvinced.
“It’s true. Gavin had an accountant who was a bit of a swindler. Instead of paying the IRS, he paid himself. I lost my house and most of my things for back taxes.”
“Really?” Caroline shakes her head.
“Yes. I didn’t want to tell anyone… It’s rather embarrassing to be broke. But then so many other things have embarrassed me… Well, I decided perhaps it shouldn’t matter so much.”
“You really lost all your money?” Violet’s expression has softened, ever so slightly.
“Yes. I’m even going to sell some of my art and things…so I can get by.”
“Well, it’s not as if you’re destitute,” says Violet.
“No, things could be worse.”
We finish the brief tour, which puts my mind at ease, since they can see that things are a bit tidier than when they
last visited, and finally we settle down in the living room with my coffee tray.