Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  My Simon—the man I swore I knew better than myself— has devastated me. His deceptions and secrets swim in my head, sending a fierce stab of anger to the middle of my chest.

  Am I a fool?

  Probably.

  A thunk—not again—draws my gaze back to the refrigerator. A minute ago, it was literally humming along. If history is any indication, in roughly ten seconds, another thunk and then a sputter will sound.

  Please, please, please. I’m almost willing it to happen, the final death of Simon’s ridiculous acquisition.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “I dare you.”

  “Mom?”

  Phillip and Rae are standing in the archway watching me, the crazy on-her-way-to-being-drunk woman conversing with her kitchen appliances.

  “I want you to do something for me,” I tell him.

  He moves toward me, his long strides efficient and purposeful. “Anything. What is it?”

  Glass in hand, I gesture over the breakfast bar. “Get rid of that thing. I’m done.”

  His eyebrows drift up. “You’re…done?”

  “I’ve been trying to save it for months, somehow hanging on to it because your father had insisted we buy it. As if I was somehow being loyal to him by keeping it.” I shake my head. “Such a waste.”

  “Mom, you were grieving.”

  Yes. I was. Still am. More than likely always will be, because I’ll never get closure—I despise that word. What does that even mean? Closure. That somehow, miraculously, all my questions will be answered?

  Well, they won’t.

  Zero closure.

  I will never be able to look my husband—the love of my life—in the eye and demand answers.

  Life.

  It’s cruel.

  And somehow, this piece of garbage Simon abandoned his good sense for—perhaps a pattern, given what I’ve learned—has kept me clinging.

  To my dead husband.

  To the life I thought I knew.

  “I want it out of here,” I say.

  Rae moves toward the French doors. “I need to grab something at the cottage. I’ll be back.”

  I should argue with her. Tip up my chin and assure her I’m fine. Fine, fine, fine.

  Except I’m not.

  The realization comes over me in a gentle wave. For once, I can admit I’m not all right. I’m not sturdy, dependable Rose.

  It’s not tragic. Not the harrowing weakness I imagined it would be.

  Rae reaches the door, setting her hand on the lever. “Rae?”

  She halts and slowly turns her head, her wide chocolate eyes apprehensive.

  “Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”

  “I should be thanking you. It’s…” She lifts her hand, then lets it drop. “You’re amazing. I’ve learned so much from you. About grace and confidence and strength.”

  Currently, I’m none of those things. “Well, we’ll thank each other, then. None of this is your fault. I hope you know that.”

  She and Phillip exchange a glance and then she’s gone, swiftly moving beyond the patio, beyond the tree with the plaque in Gayle’s honor.

  Phillip sets a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take care of the fridge. And then we’ll go shopping for a new one. Get you what you want.”

  He doesn’t bother asking how I am. He knows. God bless him. I pat his hand, eyeballing the nearly empty brandy glass. “It’s been a long week.”

  “It has. What do you need?”

  I look up at him, forcing a smile. “You won’t like this, but I need to be alone. I’m tired and need some space.”

  “You’re right. I don’t like it.”

  “But you’ll leave anyway.” I shift in my seat and look up at my child. That sweet boy who has given me so much more than a mother could ask. “I adored your father.”

  “I know.”

  “And he deceived me. I have to come to terms with that and you can’t help me. He was your parent. It’s not fair to you. My darling, as much as it will drive you insane, you can’t protect me from this.”

  His mouth dips at the corners. “It’s ironic.”

  “What?”

  “Dad. He wanted me to take care of you. He didn’t say it often, but when he did, I got the message. If he died before you, I was to pick up the pieces and make sure you were taken care of. All things considered, he’s put me in a helluva bind. He never counted on you needing to be protected from his mistakes.”

  The refrigerator lets out another thunk and the two of us shake our heads. Another of Simon’s mistakes.

  There are, no doubt, more. Perhaps, my devotion to him, my belief that we were invincible, added undue pressure. George told me as much when he said Simon didn’t want to disappoint me. I’ll have to ruminate on that. On my part in this.

  It’s not my fault. I’m convinced of that. The truth, however, usually lands somewhere in the middle, so I’m not above accepting my share of responsibility for the failures in my marriage.

  I rise from my chair and walk to the sink where I place my empty glass. I’m not even going to wash it. It can wait. I swivel and lean against the counter, my gaze fixed on Simon’s refrigerator. That error was all his.

  And one I’ll clean up. “Phillip, you were right. Let’s take it out back and shoot it.”

  My son grins at me and the sight of it chips away at my fatigue. Phillip. He can be maddening, but he loves me. After what we’ve just been through, there’s not much more I can ask for.

  52

  Rae

  * * *

  Not five minutes after I return to the cottage, there’s a soft knock on the door. Rose. It has to be. I check the spot by the door where I dropped my messenger bag and I didn’t have anything else with me at the house, so she’s not here returning something.

  She could be here to kick me to the curb. I wouldn’t blame her. After all, I entered her life and caused its implosion.

  Somehow, this keeps happening to me. This wrecking of people’s lives. Journalism, as much as I love it, comes with a heavy price. One I’m not sure I can afford. At this point, the Grande story might not be published. I'll leave that to Rose to decide.

  The press will be all over George's arrest, but they won’t have the backstory, the finer details that make it intriguing and scandalous.

  I can beat everyone to it. I glance at my messenger bag where my laptop has the start of an outline. This story, with the Loretta Lonnie and Jackson Harlan connection, would put me on the map. Probably Vanity Fair or Time. The Atlantic. Definitely People. Between the politician, the murdered sex symbol, and the Hollywood cast, I can’t miss.

  Except…Rose. Her family is wrapped up in all this drama and I can’t do that to her. Not after what she's done for me.

  The knock sounds again. As much as I don’t want to face whatever she has to say, I’m on her property. I can’t ignore her. Time for my big-girl panties.

  I lift my chin and square my shoulders. Whatever she wants, I'll give her. Even if it means burying this story. It’ll wreck me, but at least I won’t be getting hate mail and threats.

  I head to the door, my heart aching because, dang, it's a good story.

  My hand hovers above the fancy lever for a second. I draw a long breath and prep myself for the soul-crushing conversation that will compel me to abandon a story that could change my life. Acid swirls in my gut, sending nasty bile into my throat. I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. Vomiting on Rose’s floor won’t help me win her favor.

  I open the door and—whoa—Phillip stands there, his dark hair a little disheveled, his dress shirt even worse. He’s ditched his suit jacket somewhere and has his sleeves rolled up. Ready for battle.

  Shoot. I knew this conversation would be rough, but it's the wrong Trudeau.

  “Hi. I thought you were Rose.”

  “Sorry. I wanted to thank you.” He turns and gestures to the house then meets my gaze again. “You saved my mother’s life. For that, I’ll be forever grateful.”
<
br />   A surge of heat pours into my cheeks. I did good. I know it, but hearing it? From a man like Phillip Trudeau? It’s a nice damned change.

  “You’re welcome. She’s an amazing woman. I couldn’t let a coward like George mess with her.”

  He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe it. Anyway, can we talk?”

  “Sure.” I step back and he moves past me, his tall frame filling the space and closing in on me. I've faced down snarly editors, nasty coworkers, and even an intruder in my home, but Phillip Trudeau, with his Ivy League education and privileged Hollywood upbringing, intimidates the hell out of me.

  "How's Rose doing?”

  “Eh. Better than I expected. It’s…a lot.”

  “I can imagine. I’m so sorry. Truly. When I came here, I wanted an interview for a retrospective. I never expected this."

  "Who could have?” He lets out a grunt. “Even for Hollywood, this is wacky. I can’t believe, after all this time, this business with Loretta and Harlan never came out.”

  "I agree."

  "Look, Rae—"

  I put up a hand. "I know what you're going to say. You don’t have to. If your mom doesn’t want to do the story, I won't publish it. She’s been so good to me, so generous with her time. And, well, I like her.” A smile tugs at my lips. I can't help it. "She's smart and funny and kind. She wanted to help me and gave me a shot when she knew it would open her old wounds. There aren’t a lot of people left like her."

  "You're right about that. Frankly, the world can’t handle another Rose Trudeau."

  We both laugh. He might be right, but I’m not about to say it. “She's a force, for sure."

  His eyes narrow as he studies me and dread shoots up my spine. There’s more. I can see it. He’s being nice, but he didn’t stop in here for a mundane chat or to check on my well-being. He continues to stare, his eyes fixed on me with such intense focus that I fight the urge to move, to step away from his scrutiny as silence shreds what's left of my nerves.

  "What?" I ask.

  “You'd ditch a story like this? It could probably make you a rich young woman. At the very least, it’ll open doors."

  Yes, yes, and yes. All of what he’s just said is true. I’ve put so much energy into finding Rose and getting her to talk to me, abandoning the story should be a stab to my heart.

  It’s not. What I’m feeling now, this sick sort of emptiness, has nothing to do with my career and everything to do with disappointing Rose.

  “You may have noticed," I drag my hand over my T-shirt and jeans, "I'm a fairly simple girl. And the doors opening?" I shrug. "I've always believed if you do the right thing you'll be rewarded."

  "Oh God, an idealist. No wonder my mother loves you."

  Ha. Funny man. “Don’t mock us, we’re generally good people."

  “When the two of you got detained in La Paradisio, I wasn't sure what to think. In her entire life, my mother has barely gotten a speeding ticket. You come around and she's in police custody within days. Like my mother, I researched you. I know about Charlie Carter and everyone blaming you.” He drills me with one of those intense looks again. “And if this didn't turn out right and my mother got hurt, believe me, I was gonna find a way to bury your story on the Grande. To bury you. Once and for all."

  I knew he didn't trust me, but hearing it laid out so bluntly twists my insides. I'm a kid from North Dakota. What do I know about battling Hollywood royalty? I channel Rose and tip my chin up. "Hopefully, that won't be necessary."

  "It won't be. That's why I'm here. This thing with my mother and brother is a hot mess, but it’s not your fault. You did good, RaeLynn. On the Charlie Carter story and on this one. No matter how this turns out, I thought you should know that.”

  My insides uncurl and warmth shoots from my core in all directions. It’s like a burst of sunshine after a month of gray winter clouds.

  I did good.

  From Phillip, the one who warned me not to mess with his mother, who’d hold me responsible if things went bad for Rose, this might be the equivalent to a Pulitzer.

  "Thank you," I say my voice gritty. “After what your mother has been through this week, that really does mean a lot. If I hadn't pressed things with her, she wouldn't be dealing with that."

  "Maybe. Who's to say another journalist wouldn't break the story? And you've probably figured out that my mother expects—no, demands—honesty and loyalty. She prides herself on that. This is painful, but she'd prefer the truth. That's what matters. You gave it to her. I’m grateful for that also."

  I need to say something, I know it, but I’m…overwhelmed. My chest locks up and the pressure behind my eyes builds as I blink back tears. I'm not a fan of crying. There's something about the lack of control that irritates me.

  But Phillip Trudeau thanking me? I’m…

  I let go. All the stress and emotion and self-doubt over these last couple of months comes pouring out of me. Literally. Tears shoot from my eyes faster than I can swipe them and my body—oh, man—it’s coming apart. Just ripping open.

  For months I’ve been told I’m nothing but wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And worse, I believed it. Even knowing Charlie Carter was a criminal, I still believed the worst. It's a horrible thing, the irony of life.

  Phillip steps toward me as I swipe and swipe and swipe at these damned tears. They won’t stop. Just keep coming. The clown car of tears. And then I’m laughing because, why not? I’ve lost it in front of a man I barely know.

  "Yikes," he says, heavy on the sarcasm. “The next time I think about complimenting you, I'll think twice."

  I let out a quasi-laugh-snort-sob. Wow. Could this get any more mortifying?

  "I'm so sorry.” Swipe, swipe. Swipe. I close my eyes, hoping that’ll stop the onslaught. "I never cry. Never. Not even when that jerk broke into my apartment. I didn't cry."

  I open my eyes and—no. No, no, no. He's coming closer, his arms open. Is he going to hug me?

  And then his right arm comes around my shoulder and he gently draws me in. I get a whiff of his barely-there cologne. Something muted. Vanilla maybe. Being a supermarket bar soap girl, I've never paid much attention to that stuff.

  One thing I know is that if I had a brother, this would be the hug I’d want. Not too intrusive, but easy and safe. Something about the Trudeaus gives me peace.

  This might be the best hug ever.

  My arms are still at my sides, but I rest my cheek against his chest and focus on pulling myself out of the spiral. Get it together, girl.

  Phillip pats my back. "You're okay. Just breathe."

  I'm okay. I did good and I’m okay.

  After the chaos of the last few months and now meeting Rose, I've learned so much about myself and what I can handle. About life and people and the value of honesty. Was it all worth it? I don’t know. But…

  I push away and stand tall, pressing my palms into my eyes for a few seconds and drying the last of my tears. Then I meet his gaze and see nothing but softness from the mighty Phillip. I nod. Once. “I’m okay.”

  Yes, I believe I am.

  53

  Rose

  * * *

  It's 7 a.m.—an ungodly hour any day—and after a failed attempt at medication-aided sleep, I'm sitting on the patio with a mug of steaming coffee. Two hours ago, I gave up and left my bed. After slipping into my yoga clothes and slippers, I made my way to the kitchen where the hateful refrigerator hummed in the darkness.

  I put on a full pot and am currently two cups into it while encased in a heavy wool blanket. The patio heater cuts the chill of a 55-degree morning as I watch the sky blazing in that purple-orange glow that I love about California sunrises.

  I'm exhausted.

  Physically and mentally gutted.

  Not even my mainstay yoga or Pilates will help me. The thought of moving drains what little energy I have. I glance at the cottage where there’s been no signs of life. Hopefully, my guest got some sleep. We have work to do today. A story to finish. Beca
use last night I connected with the editor of Vanity Fair and she wants the first crack at it.

  I'm oddly pleased. I’ve fought and fought and fought to preserve my privacy. As an extension of Simon and his practice, I wanted all who might be interested to understand I value discretion. In a scandal-ridden town like Hollywood, we couldn’t expect potential clients to retain a lawyer whose life was public fodder.

  It’s not lost on me that the very thing his clients loved about him is now the source of my heartbreak. Simon and his secrets. Even ones he kept from me.

  The cottage door opens and I sit a little straighter. Rae appears on the doorstep. She’s dressed in her usual jeans, but a bulky hooded sweatshirt has replaced a T-shirt. Somewhere buried under all that material is RaeLynn. If it kills me, I will burn that ugly sweatshirt.

  Her messenger bag is slung over one shoulder and—oh my—she reaches back and drags her suitcase over the threshold.

  Where might she be going? The atrocious boots she wore on her first visit might be an indication.

  She's leaving.

  The thought tugs at me, but I can’t think too hard about it. There’s been enough disappointment this week. Besides, she hasn’t gone anywhere yet.

  I take a sip of my coffee and set the mug down. "Good morning," I call. "You wouldn't be sneaking out, would you?"

  She whips around, sees me, and even from this distance there’s something in the slump of her shoulders that reveals sadness. “No. Besides, if I tried, you'd catch me at the gate."

  I would indeed. I pat the chair beside me. “Come sit, dear. I'll get you coffee. We have things to discuss."

  I make a move to rise from my chair, but Rae shakes her head. "I'm okay. Thanks. I'm already hopped up. More coffee might put me over the edge."

  I settle back into my chair as she makes her way toward me, leaving her suitcase at the edge of the patio. She claims the chair beside me and I give her a once-over. Her hair is pulled into a high, messy ponytail that does a lovely job of accentuating her big brown eyes, but it may not have been her best option today, considering the puffy skin underneath those eyes. She looks as tired as I feel.