Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  Phillip blanches. He was three when the fire occurred. His knowledge of it is limited. At least, he’s never heard the details from me.

  At the time, Simon and I had left Phillip with his nanny while we jetted off for a long weekend in La Paradisio with George Hopper. George, a Hollywood mainstay for his singing and acting talent, was a client who co-owned the Grande with businessman Myles Garner. George and Myles threw legendary weekend parties that included endless lobster, caviar, hundred-year-old scotch, and top-notch entertainment.

  On that particular weekend, I was never so thankful to have left my child behind. If Phillip had been with us, he’d have been napping at the time of the fire.

  And now dead.

  I shiver as the remnants of my martini burn my throat.

  “Did you talk to her?” Phillip asks.

  “I invited her in. To feel her out.”

  “And?”

  “I like her. She’s young and hungry. Trying to build a career. I found some of her work online. She’s quite thorough.” Phillip’s mouth spreads into a smug smile. He knows me. “Just stop it. My liking her doesn’t mean I’ll help her.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “Oh, hush.”

  “Maybe you should talk about it. You’ve been holding it in all these years. Plus, with Dad…gone, it might be time now. To help you heal. And, hello? You have the connection to George. She could interview him.”

  He has a point.

  Not that I’ll admit that.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Stirring all that up might not be a good thing. Not so soon after your father’s death.”

  “It’s been a year—”

  “Eleven months.”

  “Whatever. Maybe it’s all tied together. By dealing with your emotions about the fire, it’ll help.”

  “Grief doesn’t come with shortcuts, Phillip.”

  “Of course not. That doesn’t mean you can’t grow while on the road.”

  Grow. When was the last time I grew? Years, probably. Each day it had been the same. Charities, running a home, socializing.

  Simon.

  Day after day, my brilliant, extravagant life I’m so lucky to have has kept me...confined.

  How could that be? Worse, how had I never realized it?

  “Huh,” I say.

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. I’ll think about it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. I didn’t raise a genius of a son to not take his advice. Now enough about me, where are we with you finding a wife?”

  4

  Rae

  * * *

  $487.29

  * * *

  It’s 9:30 in the morning and I’m still in men’s boxers and a Bob Seger T-shirt from the seventies my dad gave me. My choice of pajamas is all about the cost. The boxers are way cheaper than ladies’ sleepwear and the shirt was free. And, if I subtract the cost of dinner last night and the hotel from my budget, I’ve got $487.29 left. In my not-sure-how-long-I’ll-have-a-job state, cheap and free are my very close friends.

  While waiting in hopeful anticipation of Rose’s call, I’m killing time by sitting on the bed hacking away at my 123 e-mails. Despite the number, this won’t take long. Roughly forty of them are store newsletters, ten are legit from friends or family, and the rest? Hate mail from various anonymous people ready to skin me for wrecking the economy in Sasper, North Dakota. Those get a bulk delete.

  For fun—and to distract myself from the level of dislike people have for me—I’m forcing myself to A) not obsessively check the time on my laptop screen and B) ignore any other calls or texts that come in.

  I assigned Rose a ringtone, Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer,” so I’ll know it’s her calling.

  Pretty smart, ay?

  Still, all this waiting around is unnerving, so I’m giving it until 10:00. A mere, agonizing thirty minutes. By then, if I haven’t heard from Rose, I’ll do something. What that something is, I’m not sure, but I still have—I flick a gaze at the top of my laptop screen—twenty-nine minutes to decide. Dang it. I looked at the clock again.

  So much for not obsessively checking the time. A gentle knock sounds at my door. More than likely housekeeping, but I can’t have them disrupting me while I’m waiting on Rose. Besides, I’ve been here one night and I’m hardly a slob. But I failed to put the do-not-disturb sign on the door, and if I don’t answer, they’ll come in. Fresh towels might not be a bad idea. Plus, it’ll kill a good ninety seconds.

  “Coming,” I say.

  I pop into the bathroom, collect the dirty linens from the night before, and whip open the door.

  “Good morning.”

  Rose stands in the hallway, her short hair spiked nicely. She’s wearing dress slacks and a silk blouse with a long string of white pearls.

  A fierce gasp erupts from my mouth and heat fires my cheeks. Next to me, she looks like everything she is. Refined. Elegant. Confident.

  Money does that.

  Her eyes shift from my bedhead to the dirty towels and then my shorts. Her perfectly-painted lips peel back. “My God.”

  Another bout of heat storms my cheeks. At this rate, my face will combust. I open my mouth to speak, but…nothing.

  I hold up the towels. “I thought you were housekeeping.”

  Ugh. Not a great recovery but, holy cow, what could she be doing here?

  She sighs. “I realize that. May I come in? Or will you leave me in the hallway?”

  “Um.” I turn, checking the unmade bed and my open suitcase sitting on the floor.

  Eh. Could be worse. It’s not as if I have empty pizza boxes lying around.

  I step back, ditch the towels in the bathroom, and wave her in. “Please. Come in. I’m sorry.”

  Rose enters the room and gives it a critical perusal. “Not bad,” she says.

  Here I thought the place was akin to Buckingham Palace. I suppose it’s all relative, considering the wildly different worlds we live in and my limited funds.

  I rush ahead, snatch my sweatshirt from the love seat, and brush the cushion off—just in case. “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  Feeling the need to defend myself, I pluck at my T-shirt. “Sorry I’m not dressed. You surprised me. You didn’t have to come all the way down here. You could have called.”

  Rose waves her manicured hand. “I wanted to speak to you in person.” She pins her blue eyes on me. “To set some ground rules.”

  Ground rules. What the heck was happening here? Could be good. Rose is a proper sort and I think she likes me. She could be here to kick me to the curb, but if she’s setting ground rules…

  A numbing sensation settles in my legs and I cop a squat on the desk chair. “Ground rules?”

  “I’ll give you your interview.”

  Whoa.

  I cock my head. “Come again?”

  Rose gives me the King Kong of eye rolls. “My dear girl, I hope this is not the way things will go. I hate constantly repeating myself. Ask my son and my stepson, they’ll tell you. Since I’ve come here unannounced and seem to have you at a loss, I’ll give you some slack. I will,” she says, speaking slowly and enunciating as if I can’t understand English, “give you the interview.”

  Unable to resist, I throw my arms up and let out a whoop. Unprofessional? Definitely. Do I care? Not a bit. I’ve just bagged the impossible interview and those newsroom haters who are so pissed at me will be stunned stupid. Stupid!

  At my enthusiasm, Rose gives me another eye roll. This time though, I spy the tug of a repressed smile.

  “Thank you!” I say way too loudly while still holding my arms up.

  She unleashes her smile and motions for me to put my arms down. “Before you celebrate too much. There are conditions.”

  I drop my arms. Conditions usually suck. But I’ve come this far, so I can’t necessarily negotiate. Maybe, if the conditions are ridic, I can talk my way around them. “What conditions?”
>
  “Well, there’s really just one. I refuse to speak to anyone but you. Not an editor, not another reporter. No one.”

  That’s her condition? Seriously? Piece of cake. “That won’t be a problem.”

  Considering I’m flying solo on this mission.

  “Good. Because we’re stuck with each other.”

  The numbness in my legs is replaced by tingles. I sit quietly for a few seconds, seriously gobsmacked that this woman, after I’ve bungled several attempts at professionalism, would do this for me.

  She studies me the way my mother used to when I fell off my bike and hit my head. “Are you all right?”

  Oh, I’m all right. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, more than a little relieved I now have an excuse to possibly stay away from Sasper a little longer. My emergency savings will give me a few days in this hotel. Beyond that, I’m not sure. I could always pick up work as a stringer for the local newspapers. And I’ve waitressed before.

  Later. I’ll worry about it later.

  Right now, I want to grab Rose’s hands and squeeze them, let her know just how thrilled I am, but…no. At some point, I’ll have to at least give professionalism a shot. My gaze locks on hers. “I’m fantastic. And so grateful. Thank you, Rose. But I have to ask. Why me?”

  She runs one hand along her sleeve, then stops at her wrist, apparently snagging a piece of lint. “Easy. We women need to support each other. I sense you’d like to make a difference. That, I can get behind.” She settles back in her chair. “Shall we get started?”

  We shall indeed. I glance down at my boxers and a fresh bout of horror hits me. The elegant Rose Trudeau wants me to interview her before I’ve even brushed my teeth.

  “Ma’am,” I say, “I’m anxious to begin. Truly, you have no idea how excited I am.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But”—I wag a hand over my ensemble—“I’d prefer to shower and put something more…suitable…on.”

  Not that I have anything that will rival Rose’s attire, but boxers? How freaking humiliating.

  “Of course,” she says. “Forgive me. I should know better than to show up unannounced. I was eager to tell you the news and wanted to do it in person.”

  “No apologies necessary. Believe me. Give me twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty? Good Lord, child, take thirty. In fact, I’ll leave and you can meet me at my home later. We’ll have lunch while we work.”

  I nod. “Yes. I’d like that. Thank you so much.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll see you soon.” She glances at my outfit again and her skin takes on a green pallor. “And, please, bring me those shorts so I may burn them.”

  5

  Rose

  * * *

  By late morning, I’m escorting Rae to my patio. It’s a glorious, unusually warm 75-degree day with a touch of breeze that will soothe my rioting nerves.

  Something is niggling at me, that little skitter up my neck I haven’t felt in some time. I dare say it might be excitement. Not about reliving that horrible fire—heavens, no—but the company.

  Rae’s company.

  If I’d had a daughter, perhaps she’d be about Rae’s age. Hopefully, she’d have a better wardrobe. None of it matters. Not when she has a palpable hunger that rejuvenates me. Her enthusiasm makes me believe we can accomplish something. I’m not sure what that something is, but it feels…good. And new. For that, I’m grateful.

  I set the tray with a pitcher of lemon-infused water and two glasses on the coffee table, then gesture to the cushioned outdoor sectional. She flops into it like a five-year-old, her arms and legs splaying, and I resist shaking my head. I bet she climbed trees as a child and insisted on playing football with the boys.

  Maybe she still does.

  “Okay.” She digs a small device from her battered bag and holds it up. “Do you mind? I like to have a backup while I’m interviewing. I’m afraid I’ll miss something. Plus, I don’t know, it seems kinda…rude. Constantly writing—or worse, typing—while someone is talking. I tend to write down the highlights. If that makes any sense at all.”

  The words dart from her mouth in a choppy rush and I chalk it up to youthful energy. Or nerves. I’m not sure which, but it reminds me how quiet—i.e., boring—my life has become.

  “As long as you promise to keep the recordings for your own private use, I don’t mind.”

  “Of course. Rose, I’d never betray a source. Never.”

  I guess we’ll see about that.

  After retrieving a notepad and pens, she shoves her bag aside, fiddles with the recorder, and tosses it on the seat next to her as I sit back and smooth a wrinkle in my slacks. I imagine my eager guest will bypass the backstory—the foreplay, if you will—and go right to the trauma of the fire. I’m hardly ready for that. Then again, after thirty years, will I ever be?

  She takes a moment to pour a glass of water. When finished, she hands it to me. Funny how she’s comfortable enough in my house to pour and I don’t even mind. When has that ever happened?

  Water and recorder taken care of, Rae settles into her spot, drumming her fingers on her thigh and my earlier, silent question is answered. My guest is nervous. Good for her. That makes two of us.

  She notes my gaze on her moving fingers and waggles them at me. “Habit. I do that when I’m thinking. Could we start with some history? Maybe how you came to visit the hotel, that sort of thing?”

  Huh. Foreplay. The girl keeps surprising me.

  “Of course.”

  Some of the tension leaves my shoulders. This, I’ve found, happens whenever I speak of Simon and our life together. I loved him. Adored him in every possible way—even the maddening parts—so talking about him brings a lightness I don’t allow myself anymore.

  “My husband represented an entertainer—George Hopper—who was a co-owner of the hotel. We were invited to the opening, met George’s partner, Myles Garner, and became fast friends. After that, we were frequent visitors. The summer after the hotel opened, Myles gave Jeremy, my stepson, a job in the office.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Entry level tasks. Sorting mail, filing. Enough to give him a taste of life in the real world. It was good for him.”

  “And Jeremy is your oldest son?”

  “Yes. Simon never married Jeremy’s mother. They were college sweethearts and broke up the summer after they graduated. Simon knew nothing of her pregnancy until years later when she wrote to him. To this day, I don’t understand keeping a man from his son.” I wave it away. “Regardless, Jeremy was nearly eighteen when he became part of our family.” I pause for a second and smile. “Simon liked to say we were working on Phillip when Jeremy arrived.”

  “Ha. I would have liked your husband.”

  “Yes. I believe you would have.”

  “So, Jeremy went to work at the Grande for a summer?”

  “Yes. During his break. He wanted to spend the summer sharing a rundown beach bungalow with his friends. The thought made me insane. Fun is one thing, but the boy needed to appreciate how lucky he was. His mother came from money and then when Simon came into his life, well, my husband tried to make up for lost time. Which meant Jeremy didn’t necessarily appreciate what he had. When his mother refused to fund his trip, he came to us. We reached a compromise. Jeremy got to spend the summer on a beach, just not the one he intended. Myles set him up in a hotel room and kept an eye on him. Jeremy returned the next three summers. We’d often visit him. The summer of the fire, we made three trips.”

  “Did you and Simon go alone?”

  “The first two times, yes.”

  “And the last?”

  This is the part I dread. The part that will, if I allow it, destroy whatever emotional walls I’ve built.

  Rae peers at me with her big, round eyes and she looks so…thoughtful…that I believe, down deep, this young girl will somehow help me through this. I don’t know how or why, and maybe I’m a fool, but I trust her.

  “On
the last trip,” I say, “we went with friends.”

  “Really?”

  I nod. “That surprises you?”

  “A little. I’ve done extensive research on the fire. And, well, you. Nowhere was it mentioned that you were traveling with friends. Perhaps I could interview them for the piece?”

  If only. “No. I’m sorry. That’s impossible.”

  “Are you sure they won’t want to contribute?” She leans in and twists her mouth into a sly grin. “As you know, I can be persuasive.”

  My goodness, this girl could be my child. I mirror her body language and return the smile. “I’m well aware. But I’m quite sure it’s impossible. Unless you have psychic powers and can communicate with the dead.”

  6

  Rae

  * * *

  Gulp.

  I’ve kinda always suspected I might be the world’s biggest moron. At the very least, I tend to forget that useful tool called a filter.

  Now, sitting on Rose’s patio with the California sunshine all around, there’s no denying it.

  If my mother were here, she’d beg the ground to swallow her. “Your…” I cough once. “Your friends, they’re…”

  “Dead.”

  Dead. Dang it. I need to get my head out of my rear and refocus.

  Rose picks up her water, eyeing the glass for a moment before taking a dainty sip. Even her sips are high class. Me? I chug it, wishing the whole time it was straight vodka.

  I set my glass back down and watch as she positions her water directly in the center of her ceramic coaster. She then moves it barely a sixteenth of an inch, grabs a napkin, and blots the condensation that has dripped around the coaster.

  “They’re gone,” she says, her gaze still on the glass. “They were in the casino when the fire broke out.”