NORA JUMELLE PEERED up from her whiskey sour. Her hair was raven, its gloss youthful, as though God had stroked it with baby oil.
Her eyes, a steely gray, enraptured him. He’d heard of gray eyes but had never seen them firsthand. He felt his libido stir but stifled the thought. He appreciated women but wasn’t a dirty old man.
She set her drink on the table and appraised him through wary eyes. Younger women always sized him up this way when he approached them. Del would fool nobody by dying his hair or attempting to hide his age, so he allowed its dark silver to emerge in all its glory. And though, at first glance, these ladies knew he was an older man, Del knew their second glances ushered in a hint of his irresistibility, which was his strong suit. Nobody was coldhearted enough to tell a silver-haired man to fuck off, which always improved the chances of their giving him that second glance. How had he gotten so lucky?
Nora leaned forward, which betrayed her curiosity.
“You’re Nora Jumelle?” Del offered a winning smile.
She crossed her legs away from him but continued to appraise him.
“I didn’t expect anyone to recognize me here, of all places.”
“Del Corwyn,” he said as he reached out for her right hand. He’d held his drink high with his left hand so she would notice the absence of a wedding band.
She allowed him to plant a light kiss on her fingers but her eyes widened, as though he had caught her off guard. Maybe she was too stunned to stop him. She gave him a quizzical look.
“Del who?” she said.
“Del Corwyn,” he repeated with a smirk, then waited for the recognition to sink in.
Nora’s eyes narrowed as she attempted to place his name. After a few moments of silence, she tilted her chin upward. Her countenance remained unchanged.
“I’m embarrassed to say this, but I can’t place the name. Have we met…Del?” she replied, adding emphasis to his name in afterthought, the way you would when you wanted to let someone know their name hadn’t escaped your memory already.
This was awkward. Granted, he’d stayed out of the spotlight for many years, but he’d received an Academy Award nomination! Was she too young to recognize him? Del’s greatest fear was to fade into the abyss of irrelevance, where nobody remembered who you were—or cared why they should remember in the first place.
Guarding his composure, he decided to forge ahead, his confidence intact. “No, we haven’t met. I’ve been around the industry, but I’m afraid we’ve never had the privilege of working together.”
Her eyes brightened. “Oh! You’re a director?”
Hmm. “An actor. I was nominated for an Oscar in 1978, actually.”
“Oh,” she murmured, lifting her glass for another sip. As her gaze lingered, the narrowness dissolved from her eyes. Del could tell he was back in the game, even if she didn’t know who the hell he was. Her softening countenance indicated she hadn’t ruled him out.
“May I join you?”
She offered a lighthearted chuckle in response, as though unsure how to respond to this older man, yet her eyes never left his. Nora continued to appraise him. With her forearms on the arms of her chair, she gestured to an empty chairs. “Be my guest.”
Nora had an alluring smile, a contagious grin that brought a gleam to her face. Del slipped into the chair beside her. Because the chairs were the size you might find in a living room, the proximity didn’t strike him as an invasion of her personal space.
“So you were a nominee?” she asked.
“Best Supporting Actor. Dreyfuss won that year.”
“Is it true what they say, that it’s an honor just to be nominated?”
“As I recall, you came quite close to finding the answer yourself. Your performance was brilliant in Faces. To portray a character in such a riveting way in your debut role is impressive. You should have been nominated that year.” Just a few short years ago.
“I doubt I’ll win one of those,” she replied.
Del dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “I beg to disagree. Besides, the public adores you. You’ve had nothing but commercial success ever since.”
“Why do you think that is, Del?”
Del felt his pupils widen as a connection formed between them. “Probably because you’re gorgeous.”
She smirked. “And you’re relentless.”
“Too forward?”
Bashful, Nora replied, “Don’t worry, it’s cool. I’ll take it as a compliment.”
With a glance around the room, Del returned his attention to the striking young woman beside him, with the raven hair and those stunning gray eyes. “So what is a beautiful woman like you doing in a geezer place like this?”
Another smirk as she lodged her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “Why do you ask? Am I in imminent danger? Are you here to rescue me?”
“You never know what might happen in a crowd like this,” he snickered. Eyeing the near-empty room again, he spotted a frosty-haired couple who had come in and occupied a corner table. Del leaned toward Nora and nodded toward the couple. “You see those two over there?”
Nora leaned closer to him, her movements now silky. “What about them?”
“Former talent scouts,” Del replied with a wink. “They founded gangsta rap.”
Nora burst forth with laughter, a verbal gunshot which shattered the subdued atmosphere. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the noise. Her eyes widened as she realized she’d disturbed the tranquility. On the other side of the room, the older couple glanced in Nora’s direction, then resumed their conversation.
“You’re a charmer, aren’t you?” she said to Del.
“I aim to please.”
Nora studied her drink and ran her index finger around the rim of the glass. “To answer your question, I’ve come here a few times. I enjoy the peace.” She paused. “When I sit here, I feel like I’m part of something bigger. Part of a continuum, like people started a tradition in this city, and I’m part of the club. I don’t mean a popularity contest, but a respectable club: Clark Gable, Ginger Rogers, Cary Grant, Marilyn Monroe. All the greats, the ones who made an imprint.”
“You wouldn’t know it nowadays, but in another era, Morocco Night was quite the hot spot. All those people you mentioned? They frequented this lounge.”
“Did you know them back then?”
“Sure. Clark and Ginger were older. But when I was old enough to drink, Cary and Marilyn were in their prime. My career had just begun at that point.” He paused. “I knew Marilyn quite well.”
“So you’re part of the continuum.”
“As an artist, a part of you wants to find acceptance with the people who surround you and the people who see your work. You want them to know there’s a real you deep down inside.”
“Or maybe it’s just daddy issues.” She shot him a wink over her whiskey sour.
“Maybe so,” he chuckled, lifting his drink to her as if in a toast. When he swallowed, he noticed a longing in the way Nora surveyed him. He could tell he intrigued her: Her eyes focused on one aspect of him, which she studied before shifting her focus to another quality and repeating the process. She peered at the corners of his eyes, where crow’s-feet were at a minimum, then moved on to his cheeks. Women always noticed Del’s perpetual tan, which he credited to his early morning jogs as much as to his mother’s Mediterranean genes.
Nora’s gaze lingered upon his large hands. His left hand, of course, lacked a wedding band—which, if Del’s plan had worked, Nora had already noticed when he’d lifted his drink.
“You’re not married, I take it?” she remarked, as if on cue.
“No, I’m not. Does that surprise you?”
“I never know what to think. Some men try to hide it, but you don’t even have a tan line where a wedding band would be.”
“No, I’ve never have been married.”
“How does a charmer like you remain a lifelong bachelor?”
He pondered her question. Oftentimes he asked himself why he felt so content without a spouse, but he had never arrived at an answer. “I suppose I’ve never met my soul mate.” Once again, his mind wandered to the fact that Nora Jumelle sat alone among the aging patronage of Morocco Night. “I could ask you a similar question. Why aren’t you involved with anyone? A significant other, I believe they’re calling it these days.”
“Oh, that,” she said with a shrug. “Relationships take time. They’re messy. Besides, I don’t know if I want to get married.” She tapped her glass with her fingernail, which responded with a slight ping. “I guess I don’t know what I want in life.”
“Not many people do.” Del grinned. “It’s what keeps Dr. Phil in syndication.”
“I’m open to the options, though. I like to take chances, learn by experience.”
“Meaning?”
To Del’s surprise, Nora moved her hand forward and allowed her fingers to make contact with his. “The fact that I don’t know what I want in life doesn’t mean I don’t recognize a magnetic soul when it crosses my path.”
And with that, she tickled his forearms with her fingernails. The alcohol lent an airy feature to her eyes.
“Let’s talk somewhere else,” Nora said.