Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  I nod. At this point, I’d agree to dance naked in my ugly-ass shoes if it got the woman talking. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “And for God’s sake, don’t call me ma’am. Rose will be fine.”

  She opens the thick wood door using the fancy brass handle. As soon as she steps in, she turns and meets my gaze for a few long seconds. The message is clear. At any moment she could slam the door and shut me out. Bust me back to North Dakota. Back to my newsroom, home of the haters.

  She holds the door open a little wider. “I like your spunk. Anyone showing up in Bel-Air dressed like that is either crazy or determined.”

  “Probably a little of both.”

  She laughs again. “Come inside. We’ll talk and I’ll decide if I’ll allow this interview.”

  2

  Rose

  * * *

  The cub reporter lowers herself to one of the guest chairs in my husband’s office and sets her bag at her feet while I take my seat behind Simon’s beloved desk. Sitting here, amongst his things, makes this easier.

  RaeLynn studies me. When I meet her gaze, she gives me a tentative smile, but quickly looks away, scanning the room and bookshelves lining the wall next to the desk.

  “Nice lamp,” she says.

  “Thank you. It’s made out of bits of iron from the first restaurant my husband, Simon, took me to. The building was demolished twenty years ago. I called the contractor and—voilà—anniversary present.”

  “Wow. Cool gift. The bookshelves are amazing.”

  I wave a hand. “Simon’s legal books. He was an entertainment lawyer.”

  “I know. A good one, too.”

  Ah, yes. She did her research.

  “From what I read,” RaeLynn says, “you helped get him there. You did the schmoozing and he the legal work. The ultimate Hollywood power couple.”

  Simon and I? We were a pair. He may have been the legal genius, but he lacked the charm needed to land big shot directors and producers. That was my job. “For thirty-four years, I networked, made connections, and volunteered my heart out so Simon could sway clients to his roster.”

  “I read somewhere that you were in your twenties when you met him.”

  The memory fills me with an easy warmth. I love thinking about Simon and those early days of discovery. Of losing my heart to him. “I worked as a salesgirl—straight commission—in an upscale department store. He came in to buy a suit.”

  Back then, I’d spend hours trailing behind the more experienced salespeople, picking up tips, studying their body language and the finesse with which they charmed the filthy rich.

  I miss that curious young woman. She knew what she wanted and had a plan to get it.

  “Wow,” RaeLynn says. “The ultimate fairy tale.”

  “I suppose. Simon once told me I could sell a dog off a meat truck. I won’t say I was fond of the idiom, but I couldn’t deny it either. Like you, I worked for everything I had. And continued doing it long after our marriage.”

  Until eleven months ago, when it all ended.

  The love of my life, sitting in this very chair, dropped dead of a heart attack at seventy-four years old. He didn’t die alone either. He took my sense of purpose with him.

  No more dogs to sell.

  Again, I focus on RaeLynn. “I adored my husband. Working with him was a bonus.” I gesture to the room. “We built this life together. It was a true partnership. I’m grateful.”

  “You miss him like crazy, don’t you?”

  Every second. “I do.”

  I sit back, settling into the soft leather and clasp my hands in my lap. There’s something about this young woman I like. Shoes and dreary brown hair notwithstanding, she’s attractive. When she smiles, her wide mouth takes over her heart-shaped face and her coffee eyes scream of curiosity.

  She also has an edge, a certain drive I recognize, since she flew here—uninvited—on her own dime.

  Realization pokes at me. I see myself in her. The young girl willing to pay her dues.

  “Tell me about yourself,” I say. “Where did you go to school?”

  She rests her hands on the arms of the chair. “I went to junior college for two years to save money. I earned my journalism degree at North Dakota State.”

  She earned. Yes. I like this girl.

  “I’ve never been to North Dakota.”

  “It’s cold. It’s my home, though, and that makes it special.” She offers a sly grin. “People don’t judge my shoes there.”

  Touché. “Then I’d suggest never moving. Or else you’ll have to change your footwear. I can help with that if you’d like.”

  “I’m good, thanks. I like who I am. And most people call me Rae. RaeLynn is a mouthful.”

  “Rae. Rae and Rose. Very good. This story you’re working on, why is it so important?”

  She stabs her finger into the chair’s arm. “People shouldn’t forget about a fire that killed a hundred people and injured a hundred and fifty more. I want to know what happened.”

  “Why? You weren’t even born yet.”

  Her eyes flash as if I’ve somehow insulted her.

  “I wasn’t born when John Kennedy was assassinated. It doesn’t mean it’s not a piece of history.”

  “All right. Point taken. Is that the angle you’re planning? That the Grande is a piece of history?”

  “Yes. It’s a thirtieth-anniversary piece. I thought, since,” she circles one hand, “since you’re in the Smithsonian—”

  “The Time cover?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate that damned cover. The last thing anyone should want is to be famous due to tragedy.”

  She nods. “I agree. But you have to admit, it’s an intriguing photo. If I’m being honest, I’ve been fascinated by it since I was a kid. Given the number of reporters who’ve tried to interview you, I’m not the only one. Which is why I think this piece is important. So people can see you and the other survivors and how you’ve all—good or bad—managed. It’ll be a great human-interest story.”

  It might, but I’m not swayed. This girl wants me to cut myself open and wrench free horrifying memories. As much as I like her, I won’t do that.

  It’s too much.

  I’ll need time. Time to figure out how I can help her without sacrificing my own sanity.

  My gaze locks on the orchid next to the window. The petals have fallen away, but the leaves are hearty. I’m hoping the plant will flower again.

  I could say the same about myself.

  Each day, I come in here and polish Simon’s desk as if a small mountain of dust has fallen overnight. I stroke and stroke and stroke until it gleams. Regardless of the beauty of hand-carved walnut, the image of my beloved husband slumped across the top of this desk haunts me.

  I look back at Rae. “How long are you here for?”

  Her thick, but groomed, eyebrows hitch. “I only have a few days. I took two unpaid days plus the weekend. I’m staying at the Fountain hotel downtown.”

  She paid her own way and took unpaid leave. Dammit, as much as I hate it, this girl is wiggling her way into my life.

  I sit forward and gently smack my hand on the edge of the desk. “All right. Leave me your number.”

  “My number?”

  “Yes. I have to think about this piece you’re writing. I’m not sure if I can help.”

  Before she has a chance to argue, I hold my hand up. “Don’t push. You’re in my house. That’s farther than any other reporter has gotten. That alone is a win.”

  Her mouth closes, but the way she squirms assures me she wants to respond. To argue her point and convince me I should be a source. Maybe I should. Right now, I don’t know and my nerves start to crackle. My God, what have I done?

  She surprises me by remaining silent.

  A smart one. Good for her.

  She rummages in the outer pocket of her bag, retrieves a business card and a pen and jots something on the back. “My cell is on the back. And my room number in cas
e the service stinks. Call me anytime. Day or night. It doesn’t matter. I’ll talk to you whenever and wherever.”

  I take the card and set it on the gleaming desktop. The bright white contrasts with the dark wood and I find it oddly satisfying. Simon would be fond of this girl, too.

  “Thank you. Give me a day to consider it.”

  She gulps, but again stays silent. It might be killing her, but she’s trying. A piece of my guarded and weary heart chips away. If I’d had a daughter, maybe she’d be like Rae. “Oh, all right,” I sigh. “Not a full day. Tomorrow morning at least.”

  She smiles. “Thank you, ma’am—Rose. For everything.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Yes, you have. It’s been my honor to meet you.”

  I wag a finger at her. “Oh, you are good.”

  We share a laugh and I rise from Simon’s chair, meeting Rae on the other side of the desk. As I walk her to the door, the silence of the room stings my ears, but somehow I feel...lighter. As if Rae’s youthful energy has infused me.

  Maybe I’ll help her. I’ll discuss it with Phillip at dinner this evening. My son, like his father, will know what to do.

  3

  Rose

  * * *

  Promptly at seven, I waltz into the Eberly, my husband’s and son’s favorite steak and seafood restaurant. The hostess beams at me. Her name is Melanie and she’s an annoyingly stunning blonde—isn’t everyone in Southern California? She’s also a struggling actress supporting herself by hostessing. I give her credit. LA can be a jungle for women who look like her.

  Predators everywhere.

  “Hello, Mrs. Trudeau.” She greets me with an open-mouthed smile that’s more schmooze than genuine delight. “Phillip is waiting. I’ll take you.”

  I’ve been sitting at the same table, Simon’s table, for ten years. By now, I know the way. I wave her off to assist the guests who’ve entered behind me. “Thank you, Melanie. I’ll find my way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Low murmurs of conversation—coupled with the aroma of garlic and grilled meat that make my stomach growl—surround me. In the bar, thick, polished wood and brass gleam under lighting that is neither too bright nor dim and provides perfect balance against dark green walls.

  I spot Player Wright—yes, that’s his name—a movie producer and one of Simon’s former clients. His parents were hippies and, according to Player, were stoned when they conceived him at Woodstock.

  Welcome to LA.

  It’s been months since I’ve seen him, but I heard his next film is to be shot on La Paradisio, not far from the rubble of the Grande.

  Player’s gaze leaves the young—really young—woman across from him and lands on me. He slides from the circular booth to greet me and flashes the sparkling perfection of whitened teeth. We exchange a friendly cheek bump—the all-important air kiss—and he squeezes my arms as his heavy aftershave assaults my senses.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” Backing away, he scans my fitted Chanel dress. “Amazing. As always. If I went for older women, I’d be all over you.”

  I contain the eye roll absolutely begging to be set free. Simon considered Player an idiot.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  “Hello, Player. So good to see you. I saw your latest film. Wonderful work. And thank you for the memoriam to Simon. Just lovely.”

  “That film wouldn’t have happened without him. It was the least I could do.”

  And just that fast, my chest locks up. Soon all my air will evaporate. Poof. Gone. I’ve been experiencing these bouts of grief-inflicted panic since finding my husband’s dead body. The panic, I’m assured, is part of the process.

  Still, a Xanax wouldn’t hurt.

  Player’s date rudely clears her throat and I’m so thankful I could kiss her.

  “Well.” I smooth a hand over his pink sport coat. “I’ll let you get back to dinner. Phillip is waiting.”

  I focus on breathing, on forcing away the pain and longing for a life already gone. I can do it. I know I can. I’m getting good at it. And I have the next twenty feet before I reach my son to get the job done.

  Simon was the love of my life. Our son is my greatest achievement. The one accomplishment that truly matters. Like his father, Phillip is a lawyer and—at a mere thirty-three—currently in-house counsel for a movie studio.

  I may have gotten him in the door at the studio, but his brilliant mind has him thriving. If only he’d thrive at finding a wife and giving me a few grandchildren.

  My son looks up from his ever-present phone and smiles. His dark hair and blue eyes are all me, but his sculpted cheeks, strong jaw, and wide shoulders are Simon’s.

  Is it wrong that every time I look at Phillip, my heart breaks a little more? He is so much his father that it’s physically painful.

  This too, I assume, is a result of grief.

  I hang on to that, hopeful that someday I’ll have a conversation with Phillip and see my son.

  Not my dead husband.

  Phillip stands and wraps me in one of his delicious hugs. Tears sting my eyes, probably a continuation of the Player episode. Grief is an evil witch. It grabs hold at the most inopportune times.

  “Hello, my darling,” I croak, once again forcing myself to breathe.

  “Hi, Mom,” he whispers. He steps back and eyes me. “I’m sorry. You know we can try new places.”

  I don’t bother responding. He understands the struggle. Knows that this establishment is an institution in our family and that I take comfort in the sameness of it. The unchanged furniture and walls and management. It’s a piece of our history I can’t quite let go of.

  He also understands an encounter with one of his father’s clients unleashed something vicious.

  I mentally shove it away and slide into the booth where a dirty martini awaits me. God bless him.

  I take a sturdy slug—I deserve no less—and Phillip snorts. “I do love you, Mom.”

  “I love you. Now tell me about your day. What happened that was good?”

  Phillip shares snippets of his activities, giving me the condensed version of a merger that might be in the works. He’s excited. I can tell by the glint in his eye and the animated way in which he speaks. No matter their age, is there anything better than a happy child?

  Our waiter, Dominic, dressed in his normal crisp white shirt and bow tie, takes our order and leaves. Phillip sits back. “How about you? What did you do today?”

  “Aside from the damned refrigerator repairman?”

  “Again?”

  “Of course. Your father would say that thing is a lemon.”

  “And he’d be right. For God’s sake, take it out back and shoot it. Put it out of its misery.”

  I’d like to. Believe me. It’s not the refrigerator I’m attached to, but the idea of it. The fact that Simon picked it. Had to have it because it was the newest on the market and some top chef had one. The best, he’d said when we’d argued over it and the salesman fawned over us. That man was no fool. He knew a good commission when he saw one.

  And I knew enough about my husband to know I’d never win. One thing about me, I choose my battles. Thus, the refrigerator.

  Now, saving the defective appliance means keeping a piece of Simon.

  He’s everywhere. Ties still hanging in the closet, his wallet tucked in the middle drawer of our dresser. Even his slippers still sit in our master bath.

  “We paid $12,000 for it,” I say. “You’d hope it would work.”

  “But it doesn’t and you’ve probably spent five grand getting it repaired.”

  “I should have bought the extended warranty.”

  As if the warranty would cure my problems.

  His focused gaze lands on me, the silence bringing a thick, potent tension between us.

  “Don’t start,” I say.

  “It’s a refrigerator. Replacing it doesn’t mean you’re replacing Dad.”

  “He loved that thing.”

&nb
sp; “Please. He saw the price tag and wanted it. Big difference. It’s an appliance. A crappy one.” Phillip waves one hand. “You know as well as I do that he’d have dumped it by now.”

  My son has a point. Still, the things I have left of Simon grow more distant each day.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  Phillip snorts again and I point at him. “Don’t be sassy. I’ll think about it. I’m old and I miss your father. Give me a break.”

  “You’re not old,” he argues. “You feel old. Loneliness does that. You need a change. Something that will light a fire in you.”

  “I have my charity work.”

  And then there are the friends. Or lack thereof. Acquaintances really. People that Simon and I associated with, attended galas with, played cards with. Through no fault of theirs, I’ve slowly distanced myself, opting not to be the lonely widow amongst couples.

  “The same charity work you’ve had for years,” Phillip says. “All of it attached to Dad. We’ve talked about the new normal. You’ll never find it while mired in the past.” He holds his hands up. “Before you yell at me, I know I can’t understand. But I miss him, too. The loss hurts.”

  He pauses, then looks away. His love for his father runs deep. He lost not only the most important male role model in his life, but his mentor and confidant. His grief is different, but still devastating.

  Phillip takes a long pull of his scotch. A million trite platitudes run through my mind. Why bother? We both know it’s nonsense. Nothing I say will bring his father back.

  He sets the glass down and gives it a slow turn. Then another. And another. Finally, he meets my gaze with glassy-eyed agony that’s a punch to my chest.

  My son is hurting and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. A mother’s curse, for sure.

  “Mom, we can’t stop living because he’s gone. He’d hate that.”

  “I know.”

  “Then find something that’s your own to dig into.”

  Like a cub reporter? Oh, the thought…

  I take another slug of my martini. My son has given me the perfect opening, and I’m not one to let opportunities zip by. I set my glass down and tap a nail against it. “I had a surprise visitor. A reporter. She’s writing an anniversary piece on the Grande fire.”