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Blue Moon 10.3

by Donna Lamb

Tom K. Harmon didn't look quite like Melody had pictured him. For one thing, she hadn't pictured him wearing braces on his legs or having that hollow-cheeked boniness in his face that often marks the victims of chronic wasting diseases or spinal injuries. Otherwise, he looked rather like the actor, Willem Dafoe, with less hair.

He stood in the middle of a long piece of green plastic turf holding a putter in both hands, bent over slightly to take a shot at the shallow cup set into the artificial putting green.

Richard held a finger up to keep Jo from speaking while Harmon tapped the ball which rolled to the lip of the cup, paused and rolled back slowly. Harmon sighed and looked up, "Hi there? You-all play golf?" he asked, smiling. His pleasant tenor held no hint of his disability but just a slight southwestern flavor, probably from somewhere between Tulsa and Bakersfield.

"No, sir," said Richard. "I caddied a lot when I was a kid, out in San Fernando, but I've never played regular."

Jo shook her head, red curls swinging. "Just m-miniature, sir. Never touch the hard stuff." She smiled, making her eyes twinkle.

Harmon laughed. "Well, I'm Tom Harmon. You must be Melody Thierry, Gil and Judy's daughter." He stuck out his right hand while dropping the putter onto the green.

Jo started slightly; she'd seen her "parents'" names at the house but hadn't heard anyone refer to them as if they were friends before. "You knew m-my folks, sir?" she asked.

He winced. "Call me, Tom. 'Sir' was my father." He grinned. "But, sure, I knew your dad. We both started at CBS back when Perry Como was hot. Well, maybe not quite that long ago. Sorry to hear about what happened." He meant the Noember car accident in which the Thierrys were killed.

Jo smiled but something inside seemed broken; she had no memories of Gil and Judy Thierry.

Harmon turned toward Richard who stuck out his hand. "I'm Richard Alexander," the younger man said. They shook hands. "I'm Jo's friend, sort of helping her out."

"Pleased to meet you both," said Tom.

Jo put in, "Richard is kind of looking out for m-me, these days."

"I see," said Tom. "And you prefer to be called Jo, right?"

She nodded, confessing, "I have trouble saying that first name."

Tom waved them all toward a sort of conversation pit in the wide office. A couch and several upholstered chairs surrounded a long table that sat a bit higher than a coffee table but lower than a desk. The center of the table held recessed electrical and electronic connectors. A tray holding a coffee decanter with cups and additives sat at one end.

After they had settled with steaming cups, Harmon said, "I'm having lunch brought in, just sandwiches. What will you-all have? My treat. The Sandwitchery downstairs does a bang-up job on pastrami or tuna salad or whatever you like."

"I'll have a fruit cup, if I may, sir, Tom," said Jo. "We ate at about eleven."

"Um," Richard felt uncomfortable eating Tom's food at what should have been Jo's meeting. On the other hand, he discovered he actually felt hungry. "Roast beef on a toasted bagel? No onions, just mayo and tomato. If that's okay?"

"Sure," said Tom. "This makes it a business lunch and I get to take mine off my taxes, too." He grinned and said something into a cellphone he'd brought over from his desk. "Ten minutes," he said when he had disconnected. "Now, we should talk about the packet you sent me." He fiddled with the joints on his leg braces, easing them so he could bend his knees.

Jo looked blank for a second. Richard stepped in. "Jo's had some memory problems since the accident. It's getting better all the time but honestly, sir, she doesn't remember what she sent you."

Harmon blinked. "Well, it wasn't much and maybe you didn't send it yourself, Jo." He picked up a folded letter from the table and extended it to Jo. "This came with the packet of glossies. I think you should read it."

Fingers trembling, Jo opened the letter and held it where Richard could read over her shoulder without thinking about it. Not wearing her glasses, she had to hold the paper a bit close, causing Richard to lean nearer.

Dear Tom,

These pictures are of my daughter, Melody Jo. She wants to be in show business so bad she dreams about it. She's very talented in music and as you can see, she takes a good picture. She's a bit shy because she stutters except when she's singing or acting in a play. I thought I'd send these to you for a recommendation on an agent for her who'd be willing to take on a new client with a pretty skinny professional resume.

My golf game has suffered since you don't play at Burbank anymore. All that fiddling you do getting ready to make a shot is just such a wonderful distraction for when I need a little nooje to get a better lie, myself. Ha.

Judy says you and Gloria have to come over, should come over for steaks. I reminded her that you aren't married to Gloria anymore and that might be awkward but she didn't feel that would make that much difference. You know Judy, can't conceive of anyone no longer wanting to be friends with someone. Loyal as a hound, that woman, don't tell her I said so. Hee.

Call me when you get this, we'll arrange a get-to, just us. Then we can include Judy and whoever you want to bring for those steaks, later.

Give Melody a look, please, and a thunk. It'd mean a lot to her, and to me and Judy.

Keep your putter up and your harbles dry.

Your friend,
Gil Thierry

When Jo began to sob, Richard put an arm around her.