Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  “Nonsense. The trip was my idea. And I owe you for what you've done for me, making me realize I was in a rut. My God, Rae, I feel…” She lifts her arms. “Excited about something. And that hasn't happened in nearly a year. You gave that to me. So no more talk of paying your own way. I’ll make the reservations and call my boys to let them know we’re coming home. Then, I'm going in search of the biggest dirty martini I can find."

  After this day, I’ll join her.

  So much for my retrospective. I’m in full-blown investigative mode trying to solve a world-famous arson case.

  30

  Rose

  * * *

  After picking us up at the airport, Jeremy pulls into my driveway, scans the app on his phone over the security pad, and the gate swings open, welcoming me home.

  It's late and despite the darkness, the property is lit up like the Las Vegas strip. Spotlights from the front shoot upward, illuminating the front of the house. I have to admit, I love the grandeur those lights create. An unexpected surprise that resulted from the boys insisting on the spotlights after their father died. At first, I found them intrusive, but now I have them on timers from dusk until dawn. If someone were to hop the gate, they'd have to be a ninja to avoid getting caught.

  I make a mental note to thank Phillip for his insistence on the security upgrade. My son is a pain in the rear, but usually correct.

  "Home, sweet home," Jeremy says. "Mother, you've got to be exhausted."

  I have no desire to argue the point. The last few days have worn me out emotionally as well as physically. I’m…upset…with Jeremy. And Simon. It’ll take me some time to move on, and try as I did to make conversation on the ride home, it all felt forced. As if the elephant in the room wore a pink tutu all of us found impossible to ignore.

  “A good night’s sleep will help." I glance over my shoulder at Rae, sitting behind Jeremy in the backseat. "Are you tired, dear?"

  "I napped on the plane. I'm okay."

  Of course she is. She’s young. I sigh and silently curse the lost energy of my youth.

  Jeremy pulls to the front of the house and parks behind his car. Heaven knows, the spiffy Porsche wouldn’t hold all three of us plus luggage, so he’d switched to my car—the Cadillac Simon bought me thirty-six days before he died—on the way to the airport.

  “Mother, I’ll get your bags. Go on in and deal with the alarm."

  "Thank you." Hoping for a bit of privacy, I wait for Jeremy to exit the car and turn to Rae. "It's getting late. You'll stay here tonight."

  "I appreciate that, Rose. But I’ll find a hotel. I can Uber."

  The people in my life all seem to want to be contrary these past few days. “Why on earth would you do that when I have five empty bedrooms including a guest cottage? The cottage isn't made up, but I'll give you fresh linens for tonight. I absolutely insist. I can't have you wandering around Los Angeles at this hour."

  That being said, I slide from the car and nearly run up the stairs to the front door before my guest decides to argue.

  I unlock the door while Rae waits on the steps for Jeremy and then follows him inside. He carries my bags upstairs, leaving Rae's near the door. He hadn't heard my invitation for Rae to stay. Or, perhaps he did and ignoring her luggage is an act of defiance. A not-so-subtle hint of disapproval.

  At this point, given the secrets he chose to keep for the last thirty years, I can’t be bothered with my approval ratings. I’m tired and hungry and just plain irritable. He returns from upstairs, casually descending the stairs in no particular hurry. As if I have all night. Beside me, Rae pretends to be enthralled with her phone when really, she’s trying to avoid the obvious tension between my son and me.

  He reaches the bottom step. “Is there anything you need before I go?”

  "We'll be fine. I've told Rae to stay in the guest house. It'll be easier than shuttling back and forth to a hotel.”

  He eyes me for a second, then slides his gaze to Rae. I know he's questioning my judgment in allowing Rae to stay on the property, but God help him if he voices it. A few days ago I’d have appreciated his concern. Now? There’s a gaping hole in the bridge that connects us and I'm too exhausted to fix it.

  "You should go,” I tell him. "You have work tomorrow and it's getting late."

  He nods, a no-nonsense single jerk of his head that lets me know he fully understands we have an issue.

  A big one.

  "Good night, then."

  “Good night, dear.”

  I follow him to the door, locking it behind him. Before going to bed, I’ll set the alarm, but leave it be for now. Rae finally looks up from her phone.

  “Well,” she says, “that was weird.”

  “You think?”

  We both crack a smile and that small gesture, the simple understanding that the tutu-wearing-elephant has left, forces some of my fatigue away.

  It's been hours since we ate—first class was full—and I decide a late snack might be in order. "Come dear, we’ll have a bite to eat before bed."

  “It's 10:30. You're not cooking for me."

  She’s correct. I’m not. “Who said anything about cooking? We're doing peanut butter toast."

  "Oh.” Her big brown eyes light up. “I love peanut butter toast."

  I head to the kitchen, waving her to follow. “I even have grape jam. Don't tell anyone, it’s a vice."

  My young guest laughs and the sound fills the space around me. For nearly a year, when I've watched something funny on TV, my laughter has boomed through the house, echoing with a reminder of just how alone I am.

  "You know," I say, "why spend money on a hotel for the remainder of your trip when you can have the guest cottage? We have so much to do, it would make things much easier. LA traffic is horrendous. And we don't know how much time we have before you need to leave. I'd rather you be here where we can make better use of your time than sitting in traffic." I hold up my hands. "And before you start fussing about paying me back, I don't want to hear it."

  When no response comes, I stop in the middle of the hallway and turn back to her. She’s halted three feet behind me and is now batting her big eyes at me. And then I see it. That bit of moisture about to drip down her cheek. For the love of God, what is this about? "RaeLynn. Are you crying?"

  She swings her head sideways with enough force it should swivel off. “No. Well, yes. I'm…grateful. Rose, you have no idea. I’m on limited funds, everything is so expensive here, and I don't even know if my boss will want me back.”

  “Then he’s a fool. Besides, while you’re here, your job is writing this story. Once you do that, you'll sell it and hopefully make a mint. Let's focus on that."

  "Thank you, Rose. You really have no idea what this means to me.”

  That’s where she’s wrong. I zip around and enter the kitchen, flipping the switch as I go. The pendant lamps over the island illuminate the room and Simon's lemon of a refrigerator gleams. There's a squeeze in my chest. It's not unusual for me to enter this kitchen, see the refrigerator, and feel something. Typically it’s loss. Tonight it’s an odd mixture of loss, anger, and disillusion. If he kept one secret, how many more were there that I’ll never know about?

  Damn you, Simon.

  “I was single in this town once,” I say. “It may have been forty years ago but I remember what it felt like to worry about making rent. If I can make that easier for you, why shouldn’t I? Particularly when you’re keeping me company. Think of it as you doing me a favor. Even if you're in the cottage, it will be nice to have someone nearby."

  I glance over at the table where the intricate crystal centerpiece becomes the focal point of the room. Beside it sits a long red-and-white envelope. The photos I’d e-mailed Phillip about fetching. I peer over my shoulder at Rae and point.

  "The photos."

  "Should I grab them?"

  Given my fatigue and the emotional whipping I've dealt with, am I ready for that? Lord, I just don't know.

  "Let's e
at something first."

  I busy myself with pulling bread from the oversized drawer, retrieving peanut butter from the cabinet, and jam from the hateful fridge while my mind travels to the envelope on the table.

  I'm such a coward. No wonder that film sat in the box for thirty years. I'm too terrified to look.

  "You don't have to, you know," Rae says.

  I pop the bread into the toaster, wiping crumbs from my fingers. "Pardon?"

  "The photos. You don't have to look."

  I prop one hip against the counter and fold my arms. “That’s thoughtful, but you’re writing this story and there are pictures in there that were taken immediately after the fire. If nothing else, it'll give you a frame of reference."

  “True. However, if you’re not ready, I can do it alone.” She gives me the bright-eyed, all-teeth smile I’m beginning to recognize as part of her charming, dry humor. “Call it a prescreening."

  She's giving me an out. An opportunity to continue my quest of ignoring grief. I appreciate the gesture and just as I'm about to accept it, the refrigerator clunks. I snap my gaze to it, cocking my head one way, then the other, mesmerized by the glow of the pendant lights against the handle.

  Another clunk sounds. If that damned thing stops working, I’m doing as Phillip instructed and taking it out back to shoot it.

  Somehow, nothing feels the way it did when I left this kitchen two days ago. It's as if Simon and Jeremy's deception has already shattered my beliefs regarding my marriage. I glance at the envelope again. What could possibly be in there that would be worse than questioning my dead husband?

  31

  Rae

  * * *

  $103.45

  * * *

  Rose is avoiding those pictures like a woman about to be beheaded and no amount of peanut butter toast will put off said beheading.

  From her spot across the island, she takes my empty plate, rinses it, and sets it in the dishwasher. I'm thankful for the snack. I hadn't realized until I took that first bite how hungry I actually was. And Rose? She packed the peanut butter on thick, just how I like it.

  Now that I've eaten, though, I'll probably be up a few hours. I'm no good at late-night snacks. It's like my body gets confused or something if I eat after seven o'clock. Even if I’m dead tired, I get a burst of energy that keeps me going. Tonight, I don't mind. Especially since I don't have to go back to a crappy hotel I can’t afford. I can squat in the guest cottage and review some notes, maybe watch a little TV. If there's even a TV out there.

  None of it matters. All I know is with $103.45 left, I'm relieved and thankful that I don't have to stress over how to pay for a hotel.

  "Let's do it," Rose says.

  "What?"

  She points at the table. “The photos. It's time I quit stalling and we look at them. There's probably nothing even in there that will help."

  Part of me can’t believe she’s willing to do this. A heavy dose of guilt lands on me. “You’re sure?”

  “Rae, I just saw the bones of the building. It doesn’t get worse than that.”

  We hope.

  She angles around the island, wanders to the table, and scoops up the photos before sliding into the empty stool beside me.

  I prop my chin in my hand, my gaze fixed on the envelope. In truth, I'm dying to see what's in there. But it's not my property and there's a definite possibility Rose could have an emotional meltdown. "Would you like to look at them alone? I could bring my bag down to the guest house while you do."

  She smiles at me, but there is little happiness behind it. "Thank you, but it's not necessary. The sooner we do this, the sooner we get some sleep."

  She tears the envelope open, slides the photos out, and studies the top print.

  Sunrise beach shot. A good one to start off with since the only things in it are the ocean and the bright orange glow behind a cluster of clouds. Still, the clarity of the photo is amazing.

  "That's beautiful," I say.

  "Yes. Simon should have been a professional photographer. He loved it."

  I set the photo down and hold out my hand for the next. When Rose's hand stills, I look up. Her face is a mask of white and her lips are flattened in a hard press that creates deep grooves in the skin around her mouth.

  The photo in her hand is of a woman. Blond shoulder-length bob. She's in profile looking at someone—or something—off-camera and she's laughing, her open mouth revealing straight white teeth. I have no idea who she is, but the kick to my ribs nearly knocks me off my stool.

  "Is that her?"

  "Gayle." The word comes out rough and Rose clears her throat. "I remember him taking this one. We were at lunch, a couple or five margaritas in, and Simon was entertaining us with Hollywood stories." She hands over the photo. "Everything seemed a lot simpler, then."

  32

  Rose

  * * *

  What have I done? I must've been out of my mind to think, after what the last forty-eight hours have brought, that I could look through these photos—before getting a decent night’s sleep—and not be traumatized.

  I should know better than to tackle emotionally draining tasks when exhausted.

  "Rose?"

  "I'm fine." The words are a hot snap and I roll my lips in. "I'm sorry."

  Rae sets her hand on my shoulder, a gentle touch that instantly douses my inner tension.

  “Don’t apologize. This is tough stuff. Take your time."

  I hand off the photo. Rae sets it in front of her while I find the next one, also from our lunch that day. It's a shot of Gayle and Roland looking directly into the camera and smiling. The next two are of Simon and I, probably taken by Gayle, the only other person allowed to touch Simon’s camera. We’re both smiling and holding our glasses in a toast.

  A shot of heat storms my spine. My Simon. Who, eleven months after his death, has left me confused and angry.

  Betrayed.

  Immediately following the fire, I’d observed Jeremy's odd behavior and then had to process Simon’s unusual and offensive response. For the first time in our marriage, my husband made me feel like a fool. How could he have done that to me?

  At the time, I chalked it up to stress, but his belittling comments, after I'd supported him in every conceivable way, devastated me. For months I’d silently carried my resentment until I eventually tucked it away and moved on.

  And, now, finally vindicated, I can’t confront him.

  I shake it off, telling myself there will be time later, in the privacy of my own bedroom for me to…what? Scream into a pillow? Break down?

  I’ll tackle that one when I get there. I push my shoulders back and shuffle through the next photos. Random landscapes, casual shots of beachgoers and hotel employees. Simon's favorite waiter, the maître d' at the restaurant. The concierge. George and Myles standing at the pool bar surrounded by darkness and the twinkling lights hanging from the roof. I describe each photo, offering Rae a brief bio on everyone.

  I must say, I’m doing a fine job of holding myself together, at least I think so. Just as I finish applauding myself, I come to a second photo of George and Myles. A close-up. I stare at the photo for a long few seconds. It could be any number of random photos taken by my husband, but there is something…

  Something.

  Maybe it's simply that I don't remember where it was taken. Not all that unusual considering the number of photos Simon captured over the years. It wasn't as if my husband and I were together 24/7.

  I hand the photo off and come to another of George and Myles. This one blurry, but clear enough to see the two men are laughing and tipping their glasses together. The zoom is not as tight on this one—hotel suite—and there are people in the background. The back of a man's head, the profile of a long-haired — and quite beautiful—redhead.

  Oh, my.

  Next picture.

  Loretta Lonnie. She's wearing a blazing smile that matches the white bikini covering just enough of her curvy body to avoid scandal.
Her sunglasses are propped on top of her vibrant red hair. She is the ultimate star who, at thirty-two, managed to appeal to men of all ages.

  Behind her is the navy-and-sea-green striped fabric of the Grande’s private cabanas. In an attempt to lure the Hollywood set, Myles and George had cordoned off a section of the beach for celebrities. Plain-clothed security people kept the riffraff—as Simon liked to joke—out.

  Given Simon’s relationships in Hollywood, we'd been introduced to Loretta years before. She wasn't a client, but I felt strongly that she might one day be added to Simon's roster. She'd been invited to the Grande that weekend by George and upon hearing we were there, had asked us to join her in her cabana. I often felt she didn't have many friends. Not true friends anyway. Not friends like Gayle.

  "Loretta," Rae says.

  "Stunning, isn't she?"

  "For sure."

  "I was always jealous of her tits."

  Rae's mouth drops open and she snorts out a laugh that once again warms me from inside out. There's something about this girl’s laugh that lightens my mood.

  "Rose, sometimes you crack me up."

  "Because I'm jealous or because I said tits?"

  "Both?"

  I nod. “I’ll accept that."

  She sets the photo of Loretta on the stack and I hand her another image from the cabana. Loretta and Gayle playing cards.

  "Were you good friends? You and Loretta?"

  I ponder that a moment. The Hollywood crowd has always been tough to navigate. Who to trust and more importantly, who not to trust. “We were… acquaintances. Simon hoped to retain her as a client, but we enjoyed her company on a personal level. Unlike many of the celebrities we knew, she was down-to-earth. I remember her talking about shopping the sale racks. I loved that about her. She grew up middle-class and even with the millions she made, she never forgot her roots."