Chapter 31 #2
“This evening you and Spencer will be presenting the Best Foreign Film award. How does it feel for you guys to be back together?”
“I’m presenting with Holcombe?” Spencer fake glares at Harlan, then looks at his wife. “Babe, let’s go home.” He takes Sally’s hand as if he’s going to lead her off the stage.
The host throws her head back and cackles. “You can’t go now. Your wife showered for tonight.”
“I think I’d rather present the award with Sally.” Harlan runs a hand through his hair. “There’s no telling the last time Spencer bathed.”
The host laughs again. “Harlan, word on the street is that you’ve got plans to headline a unique theater arts concept.”
Harlan leans toward the microphone and nods. “I’ve been brainstorming with several colleagues in the industry about a mentoring program for younger acting professionals. It’s been exciting to talk through the possibilities.”
I grab Prissy’s hand and close my eyes. “Good for you, Harlan.”
Prissy acknowledges my whisper with a squeeze.
“That sounds wonderful. Best of luck to you. Spencer, Sally, always a pleasure. Have a great time tonight, you guys.” The host points to the camera. “Laura, I hear you have a report on some new arrivals. Back to you.”
The shot cuts away from the interview stage.
Prissy tsks. “I should have brought something stronger than chocolate.”
We make the best of watching the Oscars.
Trying to put on a good front, I laugh at all the jokes and clap for my favorites.
The camera catches Harlan in the audience once, and I want to squeeze my eyes shut.
When it’s time for him to present, I grip the arm of the couch and hope the Feldmans don’t charge me for the permanent nail marks.
After the show ends, Prissy leaves, reminding me of our appointment with the architect tomorrow.
Once I close the door and turn the lock, I return to the den and plop onto a comfy oversize chair.
It’s time to face the gaping hole I’ve tried to ignore since Harlan’s face filled my TV. As I curl up under an afghan, tears spill down my cheeks.
I repeat the scary question I’ve been asking for weeks. Only it’s not scary anymore. For a while it’s like I was searching. Then more like pondering. But tonight, my soul asks it differently. “Am I lovable?”
In a whisper so soft I barely hear my words, I answer myself for the first time. “Yes.”
Then I understand. Only in the midst of brokenness. This had to happen in the midst of brokenness. Because if I believe I am beautiful, precious, beloved when I am in the pit, then it will always be true. Never again will I have to wonder about my worth. I am enough. And I am lovable.
Instead of familiar grief tears, these are ones of relief. A celebration. A declaration.
A new beginning.
There’s still room for love.
The day after the Academy Awards, Prissy and I meet at the Grundle Architectural Firm to discuss remodeling concepts attached to three different properties we’ve viewed.
But, of course, Peter the Great begins with Harlan’s next-door neighbors.
This move has Prissy’s well-manicured claws all over it.
“Ms. Harper, I took some liberties with these blueprints, but we can change or shift most anything you desire.” Peter points to the gridded plans of the boardinghouse at Twelve Bluebells Ranch displayed on a drawing table.
“We’ll keep the kitchen, dining, and living area in the same places.
But we’ll get rid of this wall here to open up the space. ”
After studying a picture I barely understand, I nod.
“Breathe.” Prissy nudges me. “We’re just brainstorming, Meredith.”
Peter pulls the top page off, revealing a new drawing underneath. “The upstairs is where the real restructuring will be.”
At present, the lodge holds numerous small rooms lined up in a row on either side of a long hallway.
Not much creativity, but it’s functional.
I don’t know a lot about architecture, but the plan in front of me is nothing like the simple, symmetrical building that currently stands.
Peter describes knocking down walls, adding bathrooms, and varying room sizes to accommodate different needs.
My eyes glaze over as his hand floats across each item he discusses on the page.
He knocks on the table twice when he finishes. “All in all, you’ll have fourteen rooms to work with in the boardinghouse.”
His words draw me out of my overwhelmed daze. “What did you say?”
Peter pulls his bifocals off his weathered face. “We can make space for fourteen resident rooms.”
Tingles start at the top of my head and travel down my body. “Fourteen.” I whisper the number of my lost ones.
All my children are represented here on this table.
The precious abandoned women who walk through the doors of Twelve Bluebells Ranch will fill spaces left by my little ones.
I grab the edge of the table, squeeze my eyes shut, and smile. “Prissy, I need to move some money from my fake Swiss bank accounts.”
Looks like I’m going to be Harlan Holcombe’s neighbor.