Retrospective.
But, hey, even with a retrospective, it would be nice to add finer details. Give readers the full breadth of the story.
And these smaller fires might be worth digging into.
9
Rose
* * *
Just as I lower myself from the attic and my foot hits the top step of the ladder, I hear Jeremy’s voice.
“Mother! You’ll break a leg. Why didn’t you call me?”
I’ve climbed into this attic a thousand times and I’ll be damned if I have to call someone every time I need to fetch something. My son seems to think I’m feeble. He’s sadly mistaken.
Banker’s box in hand, I leverage it against the step. “My dear, I can still climb a ladder.” I inch sideways, taking extra care not to let my foot slip and wind up tumbling to the floor. Wouldn’t that be lovely after proclaiming my fitness? “Take this. Please.”
He reaches for the box, sets it on the ground then guides me down the ladder. Dust from the box floats in the air and Jeremy arches back as I swat at the particles. My intolerance for dust drove the installation of a state-of-the-art air purifier that cranks constantly. Simon had his refrigerator. I have my air purifier.
Once the dust, quite literally, clears, Jeremy gently swipes his hands together, ridding them of any possible dirt. “What were you doing up there?”
“Looking for photos from the Grande. I think Rae might be able to use them.”
“When’s the last time you looked at them?”
Leave it to one of my sons to focus on the one thing I’d rather not be reminded of. I stare down at the yellowing cardboard and nudge it with my toe. “I’m not sure.”
I’m a liar.
Jeremy knows it.
The thick layer of dust still sitting on the lid gives me away. The truth is, I haven’t opened that box since I threw the last roll of film in it. At the time, just weeks after the fire and in the throes of grief, I told Simon I couldn’t bring myself to look at the photos. Over the years, I’ve reconsidered and even made it halfway to the attic, but couldn’t quite summon the courage. Those photos will be of George and Myles and Loretta. And Gayle and her husband, Roland. Gayle laughing. Gayle in the pool with one of her crazy hats.
Gayle living the life we took for granted.
“Maybe,” Jeremy says in a voice that’s soft and full of understanding, “you should wait.”
I recognize his concern. We were both there that day. Both saw the horror and suffered the heartbreak that comes with losing friends. Viewing the photos will summon the pain—and the anger—I’ve long buried.
“Darling,” I say, “I’ve been waiting thirty years. Any longer and I’ll be dead.” He blanches and I fear my attempt at lightening the topic was ill-timed. I reach for his arm, give it a gentle squeeze. “I didn’t mean that. You know my mouth.”
“Yes. But…” He pauses, tightens his lips, then shakes it off before scooping the box up and sending more dust flying. “Never mind. I’m assuming this is going downstairs?”
Clearly, my son doesn’t want to discuss my eventual death. The poor man lost his father and biological mother within eighteen months of each other. I have no doubt he loves me, but I suspect his fear of my demise has more to do with another severed connection to his parents than losing me. I’m not insulted.
Grief is ugly.
And now it sits between us, robbing us of a moment we should probably share with each other, a moment to say “I love you” or “you mean so much to me” and yet we stand stock-still, silence smothering us. Five, ten, fifteen seconds pass before my throat starts to itch. Whether from the hateful dust or the words I can’t seem to let fly. Sometimes, it’s easier to shove them away.
He holds the box up. “I’ll carry this down.”
10
Rose
* * *
Once Jeremy deposits the dusty box on one of my counter stools—Lord, I’ll need to scrub this entire area—I call out to Rae. A second later she appears in the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Come inside, dear. I have photos from the Grande.”
For a moment, she simply stands there. My announcement has apparently rendered her immobile.
And speechless.
Considering what a pest she’s been for the last four weeks, I find this to be a miracle. Still, I wait another few seconds, then wave a hand. “I’m not getting any younger, Rae.”
My gentle push has the desired effect. She whips the screen door open and rushes in, her eyes darting from me to the box and back.
“Before you get ahead of yourself, I’m not sure what I have in here. And, please, close that door.”
She turns back. “Ooh, sorry. I got excited.”
Attempting to minimize soiling my sparkling kitchen, I lift the lid, then reach across the counter and set it standing up in the sink.
Somehow, through all the jostling, that damned roll of film I’ve been avoiding sits right on top, nestled between two large envelopes. How is that even possible?
“Film!”
Rae scoops up the roll, holding it in front of her. Grab it. My fingers tingle and I’m tempted to snatch my property back, to shove that roll back in the box, burying it where I can’t see it. Instead, I force myself to be still.
On some emotional level, I understand this is part of the healing process. I’ve retrieved this box for a reason. Now I have to let it happen.
She meets my gaze and, being the smart girl I think she is, apparently reads something in my body language. She sets the roll back in its place. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “This is yours and here I am grabbing it.”
I hold up my still tingling hand. I’d like to tell her it’s all right, but nothing about this is all right and it never will be.
I gesture to the box. “I haven’t opened this since a few weeks after the fire.”
Again, she’s frozen, but her eyes dart to the film, then back to me. Film. Me. Film. Me. At this point, she might be drooling. If I weren’t so inside my own head, I’d laugh. She wants to ask me about the photos. Of course she does. But, bless her little heart, she’s so obviously trying not to be her typical free-wheeling self that I can’t help smiling.
I point at the film. “That roll is our last trip.”
“You never had them developed?”
This seems to perplex her. What can I say? People do odd things when they grieve.
“No. It was too much at the time and then, as the years went on, I chose to leave it alone.”
“Wow. All this time.”
I can’t believe it. Well, yes, I can. When it comes to the Grande and the emotions tied to it, I’ve spent thirty years pretending to have moved on. I’m a fraud. “We can have them developed. There might be something you can use.”
The words come in a rush. I’ve spit them out, knowing full-well if I stop to think, I might not follow through.
Rae retrieves her phone from her back pocket and starts typing. “I’ll find a place that does developing.” She looks back at me, an infectious smile splitting her face. “Thank you, Rose.”
Oh, yes, this girl is growing on me. “You’re welcome. Now, I’ll start lunch and you can go through the box.”
11
Rae
* * *
Rose retrieves a package from the refrigerator and sets it on the granite countertop.
“Still cold,” she says. “Good. My insolent refrigerator seems to be behaving. Thank you, appliance gods.”
With her money, you’d think she’d just replace that clunker, but whatever. People are quirky. “You don’t have to cook for me. I’m fine with pizza. I’ll even buy.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Business expense.”
Which is a total joke considering I’m on a freelance shoestring—half a shoestring—budget.
But I can’t help offering. Every part of this trip is an opportunity to bust out of reporter purgatory.
Rose laughs at me. She does that a lot. I’m okay wi
th it. I can tell she’s genuinely entertained and not making fun of me. It’s as if my energy makes her happy and I kinda like that, since the last few weeks have been all about people trying to avoid me.
“No pizza,” she says. “I’m making you my famous burgers. I love to cook. I did it for Simon and the boys.”
Somehow, I never pictured Rose at a stove crafting meals. In my narrow mind, I figured she had a chef. “Really?”
She walks to the sink, removes the dusty box cover, opens the cabinet below and comes back up empty-handed. I assume there’s a waste basket under there.
“My cooking surprises you?”
I could lie, but that’s not my style. “I assumed you had a chef.”
“Why pay a chef when I can do it myself? I am, in fact, trained. Not formally, but I took culinary classes. That was early in my marriage, when Simon worked long hours and I was alone. A year in, after many social functions, we figured out I could help him build his business. When that started, I stopped taking classes. I loved my new role as Simon’s partner. The work was quite fulfilling.”
“You were working toward building something together. I think that would be great fun with my husband, well, when I find a husband.”
A husband. Good luck to me on that one. When it comes to relationships, I’m a loser. I’ve been so career-focused that men have failed to be my priority. Which isn’t exactly a huge selling point for moi.
“You’re not married, then? I noticed you weren’t wearing a ring.”
“Not married. I’m a career girl. Plus, I don’t want to depend on a man to support me. I want to go into a relationship being self-sufficient.”
After giving her hands a good, soapy scrub, Rose drops the meat in a giant bowl and slides open one of the drawers in her kitchen island.
Sans measuring spoons, she tosses what looks like salt, paprika, and dried basil along with a few other spices I don’t recognize into the mixing bowl. These are some fancy burgers she’s whipping up. If they’re good, I’ll be begging for the recipe.
She kneads the meat with her bare hands, falling into an easy rhythm. “Excellent. You’ll never be sorry for that. I wasn’t. That’s how I met Simon. He’d come into the store and I’d help him shop. If I hadn’t had that job, I’d have missed out on this life.” She peers beyond me to the dusty old box on the table. “Of course, there are events I could have done without.” She brings her gaze back to me. “But that’s life. We all have burdens.”
“True.”
She nudges her chin toward the table. “While I cook these burgers, why don’t you start sifting through photos. See if there’s anything of interest. Then we can talk about it.”
Anxious to see what’s in the box, I swivel on my stool and hop off. “Thank you, Rose. I know this can’t be easy. I’ll try to keep it from getting too…”
What? Depressing? Awkward?
“It’s fine,” she says. “Believe me, if I didn’t want to do this, I wouldn’t.”
“Do you mind if I sort and stack them on the table?”
“Go ahead.”
Plate of burgers in hand, Rose heads outside to the grill. Her leaving offers a sense of relief and a wave of guilt presses in. Rose’s grief—whether because of the Grande or her husband— hangs heavy in this house, thickening the air.
She might have money and clout, something, I admit, I’ve craved, but this? The weighty sadness? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. My life isn’t perfect and my boots might be ugly, but the life of a socialite and keeping up appearances seems like a lot of damned work.
Part of me feels bad putting her through this and that makes it easier to look at the photos without her watching.
Horrible. I know.
The box awaits and I lift a handful of prints out, taking care not to mangle or bend the edges. Time has been a friend to them, reinforcing the fact that they’ve been in storage for thirty years.
I find several photos of the hotel and the beach area, so I put them in one pile. My plan is to have one stack that will help me visualize the layout and the decor of the property and another stack with guests. I found a floorplan online, but the photos bring it to life.
A good fifteen minutes in, Rose returns, setting the burgers on the island. I’m so into the pictures I don’t want to stop, but how rude would that be? The woman cooks me a meal and I don’t want to eat it. Great way to insult her.
I abandon the photos, hit the powder room to wash my hands, and rejoin Rose at the island where I slide onto a stool next to her and bite into what might be the best darn burger ever. Ever.
“Oh, my God,” I say over a mouthful of food. The prim and proper Rose must be horrified at my poor manners, but who cares? I hold up the burger. “This is amazeballs.”
If I’m not mistaken, I believe my hostess just blushed. “Thank you, Rae. While I was out there, I realized how much I miss cooking. I used to host dinner parties weekly. Some casual, some more formal. After Simon died, I stopped. Maybe I’ll start again.”
“If you’re serving food like this, I’m coming. All the way from North Dakota.”
“Ha,” she says, “I could fly you in on Phillip’s jet. Well, the studio’s jet, but he has access to it.”
A private jet. No way to wrap my mind around that one. This world is definitely foreign to me.
“That must be fun,” I say.
“The jet?” she shrugs. “Honey, it sure beats coach.”
This time, I’m the one who laughs and Rose’s blue eyes sparkle.
She takes a dainty bite of her burger, chews gently, clearly analyzing her work before swallowing. “Not bad,” she says. “You know, back in the day, we’d charter a jet every now and then. It’s horrifyingly expensive, but Simon would treat us. That last trip to the Grande, we went private.” She sets her sandwich down and stares up at the ceiling. “My goodness, that was fun. Gayle and I drank too much on the way down and were tipsy— more than tipsy. We were falling down drunk.”
I bite my lip to hide a laugh, but can’t pull it off and finally give up and let out a long snort. I just can’t picture Haughty Rose drunk. “Was Simon upset?”
She waves it off. “Lord, no. He loved it when I made a spectacle of myself. The Grande seemed to bring it out in me. I was able to relax there. Not worry so much about appearances. I really did love it.”
“That’s what vacations are for. Kicking back. Have you been back to La Paradisio since the fire?”
“No. Not once. Simon had suggested it, thinking that perhaps it would help me work through the grieving process, but…” She shrugs one of her bony shoulders. “I don’t know. I suppose it was the fear.”
12
Rose
* * *
A moment of realization smacks at me. For nearly thirty years, I’ve allowed fear to dictate how I live my life. Not my entire life, but an important part. The part that gave me happy times, friendships, and memories. I’ve let so many of those friendships fade, distancing myself from people I’d enjoyed.
A muscle in my stomach seizes and I drop my burger. I’m a fraud. And possibly a coward. All this time, I’ve prided myself on being my own woman, unafraid to stand up for my beliefs and strong enough to manage not only my life, but my husband’s.
Now, between refusing to face the photos and my ongoing reluctance to revisit an island I loved, my fear is searing a hole in me. Stealing my identity. Bit by precious bit.
It’s not enough that the fire took my most trusted friends, I let it take me—the essence of me, anyway.
Prior to the emotional rubble left by the Grande and now Simon’s death, I threw myself against any challenge, euphoric over the experience. With every failure, I learned and started over, discovering I thrived on conquering the impossible. Or at least trying.
The Grande was, more than likely, the first blow to my psyche. With tragedy came a determined refusal to avoid visiting the island and ultimately accepting the reality of my friend’s loss.
The secon
d blow, the final shattering one, came years later with Simon’s sudden death. Two people I loved. Gone.
In an instant. Both times.
No long goodbye, no chance to say things I should have said every day but took for granted. and definitely no time to absorb that they’d be leaving me.
It has to stop. Right now. Somehow, I need to rediscover the old Rose. The one who took risks and loved with every unbridled ounce of her. The one who’s not simply functioning by getting through the mundane tasks of the day.
In short, I want my joy back.
I push my plate away and turn to RaeLynn, who is downing her burger like she just ended a seven-day hunger strike. “Rae.”
She swallows a bite no girl her size should even be able to take and winces as it apparently gets caught in her throat.
“Ma’am?” she croaks.
“Have you ever seen the Grande?”
Her eyebrows spike up. “I have pictures I found online. Before and after.”
“That’s not what I mean. The real thing. Up close.”
She drops her burger, swipes her napkin over her hands and mouth, and swivels to face me. “No. My parents aren’t big travelers. Well, we’d go camping, but nothing on the islands. Besides, all that’s left of the Grande is the burned-out shell. Not much to see. I read something about it being bank owned.”
“After the fire, George and Myles ran into financial difficulties—something about insufficient insurance—and were never able to restore the building. Eventually it went into bankruptcy. Now all that’s left is the cement structure with a for-sale sign on it. Buyers are reluctant, as some consider it cursed.”
“Amen to that. I wouldn’t want to put a building on land where so many people died.” She shudders. “Ohmygod, the hauntings would be insane. No, thank you.”
Into the Fire Page 5