FROM THE CORNER of his eye, Del noted the time as the doorbell rang again.
3:17 a.m.
Rubbing the sleep out of his eyeballs, he opened the front door and, as expected, found Nora standing on his front porch. A light drizzle fell, which had moistened her hair.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said, “I didn’t know who else I could trust.”
“That’s okay,” Del replied with a yawn, his voice groggy. “Come in. I’ve got a pot of coffee brewing.”
Nora had called thirty minutes earlier and asked if she could stop by his house. She didn’t mention why, only that she needed to talk to someone before the world awoke that morning.
The last time Nora had visited his kitchen was—well, that one night and the morning that followed. To his credit, he remembered how she liked her coffee. Del poured two cups and they sat at the kitchen table. Nora shivered, wrapping her hands around her mug for warmth.
“A cold rain has started outside,” she said.
“Just a spot shower. They haven’t predicted anything bigger.”
Del eyed Nora. Based on how she bit her bottom lip and tapped the cup with her fingernail, he figured he should let her begin the conversation. If she’d called him in the middle of the night, it couldn’t be good.
“Do you know why I’m here?” she asked.
“No, can’t say I do.”
As he took further note of her, she didn’t strike him as nervous. Instead, she looked troubled, perhaps scared. Come to think of it, her voice had sounded off-kilter on the phone. Had he noted a tremor in it?
Nora stared at the dark liquid. Del perceived it as an attempt to avoid eye contact. Then her shoulders slumped.
“There are some pictures,” she said at last, her voice restrained. “Some not-good pictures. Online.”
Del had a hunch where this topic would lead. “Pictures of you?”
“Yes.” A confession, as though he were her priest. “I met a guy at a frat party while I was in college.” Nora met his eyes. “I was on my own for the first time, eighteen years old, free to be myself. And a bit of a wild child back then.”
Del nodded. He detected nuances of shame in the way she spoke and hesitation in her demeanor.
“As you can imagine, we did a lot of drinking at that party. He was a gorgeous guy, and I made the mistake of giving him my phone number while I was still half-sober. A few hours later, we were both drunk and started texting back and forth. One thing led to another…” Her voice drifted. She waved a hand in defeat.
“And?”
“And…the words became photos.” Nora took a deep breath and sighed. “I deleted the photos he sent me.”
“But he didn’t return the favor.”
“No, it doesn’t look that way.” She’d returned her eyes to her coffee and sipped. “I’d forgotten all about that night until now.”
Del felt bad for Nora, who looked numb.
He sympathized with Nora. Del, of all people, understood indiscretions. He had engaged in his share of them. Fancying himself an expert on the female form, he had explored dozens—make that hundreds—of nude women over the years. But Del Corwyn had never left a woman humiliated or scared. Some called his lifestyle selfish, and perhaps it was, yet he had always respected a woman’s dignity.
“These photos have hit the news in the midst of all the Oscar publicity. The timing would have been bad no matter when it happened, but lately, people are paying closer attention.” She gasped with fresh realization and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh shit, that photo’s gonna go viral. Already has, probably!”
Del eyed her but said nothing. She leaned forward, her face full of sincerity.
“Photos like this—I would never do this type of thing, Del. Not anymore.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” he whispered, giving her a pat on the hand. His response seemed trite, but it was all he could think to do. He wanted to embrace her, to comfort her in her distress, but felt unprepared for this.
Nora shook her head, her movement ever so slight, which Del assumed was a reaction to the mental bombardment that must have roiled inside her. The anger. The resentment.
The regret.
Finally, Nora peered at him again, her face exhausted. An air of resignation hung heavy upon her.
“This must seem so strange to you,” she said. “None of this social media existed when you became a public figure.”
If Del had come of age in Nora’s era, he admitted, he might have made the same error in judgment. But she was right, social media had changed things. When he was a teenager, sexual experimentation occurred live, in person, on Friday nights in the back seat of a car at the drive-in. Once the moment passed, the evidence vanished.
Things were so different today. The evidence never disappears.
In truth, Del did understand Nora’s dilemma. He had seen it before.
To this day, he could recall Marilyn’s reaction when her nude image appeared in print without her permission. She had agreed to the photo shoot as a starving artist, long before her fame, back when she was known as Norma Jeane Mortenson. She’d needed the quick cash. At first, her photo was included in a little-seen, dirty calendar. But when the photo rights were sold, she’d felt like a prize horse, sold to the highest bidder at a state fair. People made millions of dollars from that photo and, by Marilyn’s account, not a single person had bothered to thank her for making them wealthy.
She had sought recognition as an artist, yet the public had seen her as a commodity for trade.
According to Marilyn, she had received fifty bucks for the photo shoot. Years later, it cost her a fortune.
She had felt hurt, betrayed, as if she no were no longer allowed to control her own life.
Yes, Del understood. This online picture was Nora’s calendar shoot.
Del rose from the table, then eased behind Nora and wrapped his arms around her. He hoped she wouldn’t consider it awkward.
She didn’t.
Nora closed her eyes. Del watched as a tear pooled along her eyelid and tricked down her cheek.
And he held her closer.