Epilogue - Beatrix
Epilogue
Beatrix
October 2017
“Mom, get over here!” I call out from the end of the red carpet, my gold high heels still squarely planted on the sidewalk. I won’t take my first step on it, not without her. I’ve never been one for superstitions, but tonight I want to appease the universe at every turn, do all things possible to make this a perfect premiere. And that means sharing every moment of it with my mom. We’ve missed so many moments, I refuse to miss any of these.
It’s what he would have wanted, too.
Her widening eyes flick from me to the carpet, the cameras, the crowds. Murder in the Books in big letters on the glowing marquee. She takes a step, carefully, because she’s not used to high heels either—she’s more of a practical pumps woman, but practical pumps are not fit for Hollywood premieres—then turns like she might barrel roll herself back into our car if the driver wasn’t already pulling away from the curb. “Oh no, you don’t need me in these photos. I’ll just make my way in more . . . discreetly. Surely there’s a back entrance?”
“Nonsense, Catherine,” Rocco says, stepping up next to her in all his black-tuxedoed glory, taking her by the arm. “This night is just as much about you.” He’s looking as dapper and delicious as I’ve ever seen him, every inch the grandly polished Hollywood superstar. So different from the man in old T-shirts and sweats I’m privy to most days, his hair in a permanently windswept state, dark stubble on his cheeks. But it’s still him, at least in the twinkle of those blue eyes as he looks down at my mom. It’s hard to comprehend now how I ever thought those eyes were ice cold; they’re a sunny Pacific blue, summer all year long. At least for me and for the people I love most.
The crowds are in a frenzy now; you would think Rocco had ripped his shirt open by the buttons based on the volume of feral screams coming in from all directions.
For a second I wonder if she’ll resist him, too, bat away his hand, but no—she’s fully taken in by his charm, as she’s been ever since we picked her up from the airport two days ago. She’d been so worn from the many firsts of her travel day—first airport, first security line, first flight, first time out of Arizona since my father died—I’d seen the frazzled look on her face when she’d stepped out of LAX, frowning up at the California skyline, and wondered if this had all been one terrible idea, a big step backward after all the forward momentum of the last year. But just a few short minutes of cruising next to Rocco in the Maserati and she was entirely in his thrall. His calming effect was more potent than a generous pour of Chardonnay paired with a warm brownie. She’s been that way ever since, even while meeting Rocco’s family last night—his parents and Rudy and Lucy, all of them flying in of course, too, for our big day. It felt nice, everyone together like that.
“You’re sure I look okay for this?” Her face is an endearingmix of nerves and pride, because, even without my validation, she knows she’s wearing the hell out of the snugly fitting floor-length emerald dress we picked out yesterday on our girl’s trip to Rodeo Drive. Green had been my dad’s favorite color; he wore green in every author photo he ever took. My dress is green, too, a few shades brighter and flaring out above my knees, with a plunging neckline that made my mother tsk atfirst glance when I pulled it off the rack. But when I came out of the dressing room to show her, she cried, said “that’s the one,” and it felt like I was choosing my wedding dress. And really, this very well might be the most important dress of my life, so many eyes on me, our nearest and dearest gathered around.
Damon and I had gotten married in a courthouse, thrown a little cocktail party with friends afterward at a bougie rooftop bar; I’d picked out a white summer dress off the sales rack of Urban Outfitters the day before. I love Rocco dearly and can see myself walking down an aisle to him someday—a small wedding, wearing a simple dress, with my mother in attendance this time.
This night, though—it’s about me and everything I’ve worked for all these years, channeling all the grief and the rage and the regret, wringing every drop of it out of me to tell this story.
This night is for me and for my dad. And thankfully, it’s now for my mom, too.
“You look beautiful, Mom. You’re glowing.”
I swipe at a stray tear as she does, too, and then she grabs for me with her free hand. “Don’t you dare make me cry, not after forcing me to endure hours in the makeup chair with Sylvie!”
We’re laughing then, all three of us, as we make our way down the red carpet. It’s a wild blur of lights, smiling, posing, answering questions. Other people join in for group photos, Lanie and Maisy and, of course, Piper, a vision in daffodil-yellow tulle; Sylvie joins us with Eden, Rudy’s there then, too—the Riziero brothers reunited on the red carpet, with Lucy and their parents, one big happy family; I hold on to my mom for dear life through every iteration of poses. She holds just as tightly back.
I’ve seen Murder in the Books before, of course, but never like this—in a theater filled with people, soaking in their responses, their tension and tears. It feels like I’m both reliving my past and a stranger watching it play out for the first time. It’s mine, but it’s also not at all, because it’s everyone’s now. And it’s better than I ever dreamed it could be.
We do a QA up front at the end, Rocco and Piper and Maisy with Lanie and I. There are more photos, more interviews, and then we’re shuttled off to a restaurant terrace for champagne and fancy finger foods and so many people, questions, congratulations.
A few hours in, the celebration still in full swing, I plunk down beside my mom on a plush white couch tucked away at the edges of the party, sipping at the dregs of an old fashioned. Just the two of us for the first time tonight. It’s been lovely—beyond lovely—celebrating with old and new faces, but the comfortable silence is like a cozy blanket. I contemplate closing my eyes, just for a moment, a brief refresher, when my mother leans in and presses her cheek against mine. I freeze, imprinting the moment; it’s maybe the most intimate physical connection we’ve had in my life, aside from when I was too tiny to remember the details.
“It was phenomenal,” she says, and I can hear it, the pride. I didn’t realize before just how much I needed it from her. But I do, and I drink it in. “Painful to watch, to remember, but . . . restorative, too. I feel lighter than I’ve felt since it happened. So, thank you. For bringing his story to life. And for making sure I was here to see it with you.”
I’m incapable of words, so I nod, squish my face even tighter against hers.
She reaches into the pocket of her dress—because of course she’s exceptionally wise and practical like that, factoring pockets into her decision. I’ve been toting lipstick in my bra all night. “I have something for you.”
There’s a small envelope clutched in her hand. Bea written in a messy scrawl on the outside.
I’d recognize that scrawl anywhere. His messy letters. Carefully messy, in his own particular way.
I slip the card from her fingers, slowly peel the flap open to avoid any tears.
Bea,
Thank you for giving me the single most unusual and most enchanting last night of life anyone could ever hope for. It was real, wasn’t it? You were real. I know that’s true, without a doubt. You were here, and you were as brilliant in your grown years as I knew you would be.
Our story was one for the books, wasn’t it? So good to start; too perfect, I suppose, because no great story worth its salt is happy all the time, or even most of it. The hard, messy bits in the middle, so much to untangle, resolve. And just when the clock was ticking down and readers might have worried there was no neat ending in sight, there you were—with the twist no one could have ever anticipated. The twist of a lifetime. Certainly mine, at least.
In case it needs to be reiterated one more time: I forgive you. I love you. 1999 you, 2016 you, all the yous, always.
I suspect that movie star of yours, he loves you, too. And obviously you love him. You know I always hated the preachy stories, but I have to say, the theme of yours, ours, is forgiveness. So make sure you do: forgive. Trust, too. Fully and absolutely.
So yes, this was a story for the books. And perhaps . . . one for the movies, too?
Love you mostest. (I’ve caved in my final hour, what can I say? I demand the final word.)
Dad
I read it again. Three, four times.
My mom is silent, keeping enough distance that I know she’s not peeking.
I neatly fold the letter, smooth it against my palm. Unsure what to say, what to ask.
She starts for me, thankfully. “He handed me that, the morning before he left us. He made me promise on all that’s good and holy in the world that I wouldn’t read it and that I wouldn’t tell you about it. He was very specific about that. Had precise instructions for me.”
“What did he say to you?”
She laughs. “Honestly, at the time, I just thought it was the painkillers talking. I didn’t overthink it. He’d told me to give you the letter when you were much older—when I came to your big premiere. ‘What premiere?’ I’d asked. ‘How will I know?’ And he said: ‘Trust me, you’ll know.’ That was that. I didn’t push. A few hours later he was gone, and you and I . . . well . . . you and I didn’t exchange many words after that. I put it in a drawer in my room, out of mind. I was curious, but not enough to break my word, and then the years passed. It faded in my mind. Never gone, though. I wouldn’t forget a minute of our last day. And then there was this, the movie, and when you started talking about your premiere . . .” She pulls back, enough so to really stare deep into my eyes. “Do you understand, Bea? How he knew?”
I consider lying. Not because I don’t want her to know. But because I haven’t plotted out the words yet, crafted the most logical way to explain a completely illogical story.
But it’s my mother, and I can’t lie. Won’t. Not in this fragile new peaceful era of ours.
“I do understand,” I say, slowly. “But it’s a long, strange story.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Well then. You know I appreciate a good story. There’s a reason I loved your father so dearly, afterall.”
I nod, lifting a hand in the air to wave over a nearby server. “Two espressos, please.”
And then I tell her everything.
* * *
I can’t remember the last time I stayed up until the sun rose.
Years. A decade, at least.
But I was too buzzed from everything—the premiere itself, the drinks that magically refilled in my hand throughout the evening, the round of espressos. But most of all, I’m lit up from my dad’s note, the conversation with my mom; telling her our story, seeing the wonder in her eyes, the absolute faith she held in me. No uncertainty, no skepticism. She was all in. Because it was far better to believe, sure, that Dad and I had really had that moment, made our proper peace. To know he wasn’t alone for his last night—far from it. But it was so much more than that, too—she believed because she’s my mother and I’m her daughter, and it’s as pure and as simple as that. It’s never been so simple between us.
My mom’s been asleep upstairs for hours. Rocco’s parents, too, sleeping in two of the many extra rooms he’d never fixed up as actual guest rooms—or any kind of room for that matter, just four white walls and dust bunnies—before now. Before me and the last six months of intensive revamping since I’d moved in here; his too sterile, too empty mountain lair is now a proper home, with personality and spirit—or at least it’s well on theway.
Rocco is still up with me, just as buzzed from these last twenty-four hours. We’ve taken our party of two to a comfy sofa on our bedroom’s north-side balcony, mugs of steaming minty tea in hand as we watch the sun rise above the line of mountains to the east.
“How did it feel?” Rocco asks, eyes hazy as he looks out,still absorbing the fact that my mother knows. He’s told Rudy, who of course told Lucy. And Sylvie has gotten bits and pieces, the only way she could fathom my giving Rocco a second go. But the rest of our families and friends—we’ve still been reflecting on the right way, the right time and the right words. And it’s felt important, keeping it to ourselves, our secret. At least for a little while.
“Pretty damn great.” I tilt my head up to smile at him. He leans down, brushes a light kiss against my forehead. “It made it feel more real, telling her, sharing it with someone else who believes. Even if she hadn’t given me the note. And the note—that just put it over the edge. And it had already been a perfect night.”
“It was perfect, wasn’t it?”
I nod. Too perfect for words.
“It’s set too high a bar for all other projects, you know,” Rocco says. “The film itself, of course, but also sharing it with you. I got so used to being on set with you. Doing publicity tours with you. All of it, together.”
With Piper, too, of course, but we got through it. More than got through it; we enjoyed it. Piper was surprisingly pleasant once I let the past stay where it belonged, squarely back in 1999.
“Well . . . what if we do another project together?” I ask, before I’ve given it a single second of thought. It just rose up and out, all on its own. Because it’s the right question. The best and only next move.
“Another project?”
“Yep.”
“You got something in mind?” His brow furrows, confused, but he’s smiling. Game for anything.
“You read my dad’s note.” He’d read and then reread it multiple times since our car ride home, handling it as gently as I’ve ever seen him with anything. Like he was even afraid to breathe on it, for fear of ruining it.
“Of course.”
I see it then, the light that flashes on behind his eyes. The understanding.
My dad’s words:
Perhaps . . . one for the movies, too?
“You mean . . .” he starts, stops. Eyes wide. Wider.
“Yes. Let’s do it. Let’s tell our story.”
He shakes his head. Ruffles his already very ruffly hair. “People won’t believe it.”
“Who cares? They don’t have to. It’s a good story even if it’s fiction.”
“A great fucking story, if I do say so myself.”
“So . . . does that mean you’re in?”
He lets out a loud whoop; it bounces across the hills, a volley of Rocco’s delight. I feel each echo burrow deeper into my bones. “I couldn’t possibly be more in.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, looking suddenly very solemn. “Let me put it as clearly as I can: I’m in with everything for you, Bea Noel. Absolutely everything. For all the time we have on this planet. Beyond then, too, if it’s up to me.”
“Good. Because I feel the same way. You can’t shake me, Rocco Riziero. The universe wouldn’t stand for it.”
“No, it most certainly wouldn’t. Not after initiating that little joy ride of ours.”
He kisses me long and deep, hands warm against my neck, and then we stay tangled up in one another, silent, watching. The sun climbs further up the sky, spilling like droplets of molten gold over the waves to our west.
Right now, this view of the coastline, it could be any year, 1999 or 2017, before, between, after. And it wouldn’t matter. Wouldn’t make a bit of difference.
Because no matter the year, I’m in the exact right place. With the exact right person.
My road trip companion through every decade.