LOS ANGELES, 1961
DEL ZIPPED UP the Pacific Coast Highway in his 1956 Chevy Bel Air. He was under contract with Columbia Pictures, and after two years of continuous—though minor—roles, he was no longer a starving artist. On occasion, he received positive mentions in film reviews. His career was on the rise. So he’d splurged and bought this convertible secondhand. His first major purchase since he’d arrived in Los Angeles, this car was a source of pride. A two-tone beauty of pinecrest green and India ivory.
He had turned down the vehicle’s white soft top. Now he settled against the green interior and allowed his hair to whip in the wind. On the radio, “Travelin’ Man” Ricky Nelson crooned about a Polynesian baby awaiting him in Waikiki.
Del’s car contained a V8 engine, which he enjoyed pushing to its limits when he hit straight patches along the coast, pockets where he knew he wouldn’t find pedestrians or police officers. In the passenger seat, Marilyn squealed with delight as he navigated a sharp curve around the mountain.
She wore large, dark sunglasses and a thin, stylish scarf on her head. Locks of platinum-blond hair peeked out from under it. For a woman considered a sex symbol, her manner of dress puzzled Del. She kept a conservative wardrobe—a tight turtleneck sweater today—almost as if she wanted to hide her figure from public view.
It was a Sunday afternoon, balmy beneath a gleaming sun, and Del wore a short-sleeve shirt with fat, vertical stripes. Marilyn guided him to an isolated stretch of beach in Malibu, where Del pulled off the road. It was a nook where they could park and savor the ocean with no one around to recognize her. Del shut off the engine but left the radio playing at low volume.
“One day, years from now,” announced Del, “I’m going to live here.”
“In Malibu?”
Call it faith, but Del felt invincible, as though the impossible were within his grasp. Victory burned inside his bones.
“Right up there.” He pointed across the road to the mountain that hovered over them. “In a mansion, where the big-timers live.”
“How wonderful!” She yanked off her sunglasses. “And we’ll throw a party! A housewarming! With an open bar!”
“Careful,” Del teased. “Don’t spend all my money on this party. Gonna need to pinch every penny to afford that nifty house.”
“Oh, pooh.” She nudged his arm. “I’ll take care of you. That’s the way it is, isn’t it? You and I? We take care of each other.”
“Forever.”
Curiosity filled her stare. Angling back, she regarded him the way she might have admired a Monet. Time stopped. Seagulls squawked, but Del paid them no attention. Marilyn drew near, laid her palm on his cheek, and kissed him. One kiss, long and full. Too stunned to return the gesture, Del froze as her lips pressed against his. He detected a trace of spearmint on her breath. He could taste her lipstick.
Del felt his loins stir and, in self-consciousness, tried to pull his shirt over his lap without disrupting the moment. How long had he dreamed of this, yet never expected it to manifest? And now that it did, he hesitated. So many people had taken advantage of her. He couldn’t add himself to that list.
When she pulled away, she returned her attention to the rolling waves before them, as though nothing had happened.
Reaching for his hand, Marilyn bit her lower lip. “Have you ever been in love, Del?”
His heart trembled at the thought. Could he tell her the truth?
He wondered if he was the only one who understood her well enough to become the man she needed. Perhaps she didn’t even know herself that well.
He loved her, he knew that much. But he couldn’t wrap words around the affection he felt for her. Had he fallen in love, or did he love her simply because she seemed beyond the scope of possibility?
“I’m not sure I’ve ever fallen in love,” he replied at last.
Del wanted to shed a tear.
Just tell her. You don’t know what tomorrow could bring. What if the opportunity vanishes?
The radio station sounded its call letters in four-part harmony, followed by “Where the Boys Are” by Connie Francis. Marilyn hummed along to the dreamy melody as she gazed at the horizon, where a dolphin lunged in the distance. Yearning settled upon her face. Her eyes glossed over with tears.
Suddenly, she looked so fragile, like a wilting tulip, and the resolve to protect her emerged in Del’s soul. As they sat in the car, their roles reversed.
Del was now her guardian.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Of course I’m happy,” she replied. “We always have fun cruising the coast together.”
“No, I mean in life. Are you content?”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, then followed it with a look of confusion. She continued to stare at the great beyond, as though searching for a way to answer the call of the seagulls.
“I should be happy,” Marilyn said, almost to herself, “but I can’t say that I am. A moment here, a moment there, perhaps. But in general, sadness consumes me. Life is full of tragedy.”
A tear escaped her eye, which she smoothed with her thumb. She wore no mascara. After all, she was with her friend Del, who didn’t care how she looked.
“People see this bubbly woman on the silver screen. They read about the parties she attends and how popular she is. But inside, I feel like chaos.”
She chuckled. A sad, absent laugh. Then she placed her hand on his and pivoted in her seat. Not one for sympathy, Marilyn Monroe was a woman of steel. She smiled through the pools in her sterling blue eyes.
“I’m a mess, Del. A beautiful mess, that’s what I am.” With a sniffle, she removed a white handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “But you, Del—you’re a handsome, eager young prince with a full life ahead of him.”
Marilyn searched his face, a vulnerable woman on a personal quest.
She was looking for joy. Del knew it. She was desperate to find it in his eyes.
She reached out, placed her hands on his face, one on each cheek. Her flesh felt warm. And when she had his undivided attention, her voice filled with conviction and hope.
“My little star,” she whispered. “That’s what you are, Del Corwyn. My bright, shining star.”