by Hilary Rose
“Well, then … Best of luck with it and be well, Caroline.” Only then did he release her hand and turn to go.
As soon as he had disappeared into the sea of revelers, Gigi scurried over, breathless and a bit tipsy, judging by her flushed cheeks and ragged gait. “Tell me, tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“How I can get Ridge Forrester to play handsies with me like that.” She licked her lips. “Now he’s my idea of hot.”
Caroline wrapped her arm around her friend’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “Gigi, you thought the geezer with the ascot and the turkey neck was hot.”
“Oh, stop. So Ridge is Rick’s older brother?”
“Half-brother, sort of. Complicated family history there.” Her mind did a quick replay of their interaction. “He was pretty chatty tonight, I’ll give him that,” she said. “He’s usually a man of few words—the silent, brooding, Heathcliff-on-the-moors type. He offered me a job again, by the way.”
“He’s a catch, Caroline. If he offered me a job, I’d be on it in six seconds.”
“I’m not going back to Forrester Creations,” Caroline said firmly. “Not in this lifetime anyway.”
Chapter Two
“Any questions? Concerns?” Ridge asked the Forrester Creations team seated around the conference table in his opulently furnished, wood-paneled office, which was twice the size of most people’s living rooms and adorned with display cases chock full of fashion industry award statuettes. “If not, I’ve got work to do this afternoon. We all do.”
He didn’t wait for an answer but instead rose from the table, strode purposefully to his desk, picked up his sketchpad and sat down with a determined sigh—a clear signal to everybody that the meeting was adjourned. Hope, Rick, Donna and Pam all filed out. Only Thomas stayed behind.
A younger, rangier, fresh-faced version of his father, Thomas had three qualities Ridge valued most in his new president and second-in-command: talent, ambition and loyalty. He and Thomas didn’t butt heads—they were in sync about the company’s direction. There was none of the testiness Ridge had had to put up with in his conversations with Rick. And he enjoyed watching his son grow into the job. Ever since his own father, the legendary Eric Forrester, had decided to spend more time traveling than running Forrester Creations—not a retirement, Eric was emphatic in pointing out, just a stepping back from the day-to-day operations—Ridge had relied on Thomas to help carry out his vision. Thomas was bright and eager to learn how to run the business, leaving Ridge to design and oversee the couture line on which Forrester Creations had built its reputation for class and elegance. As for the ever-resentful Rick, he was the point man on his sister’s Hope for the Future line. He also looked after Brooke’s Bedroom, the lingerie division his mother had conceived, while Brooke spent most of her time sharing custody of RJ and deciding where else she wanted to put her energy these days—and with whom. There was no longer a “Brooke and Ridge” and hadn’t been in well over a year. While Ridge felt the loss of the connection they’d shared—a connection that had lasted for what seemed like an eternity—and he would always love her, the way you always love your most enduring romantic partner, he was relieved to be free of the constant drama that had been the hallmark of their relationship. Now they were cordial with each other, active co-parents to RJ, and that would suffice. He was intent on protecting his ten-year-old son from unnecessary drama and upheaval, and so far he’d been successful. The boy was happy, well adjusted and safe. Perhaps he would campaign for RJ to join the family business someday, perhaps not. In the meantime, he hoped to convey to his son his love of the artistry of designing.
“Seems like all the details for the fundraiser are coming together,” said Thomas. “Donna has the ballroom booked and the invitations are mailed, and Pam is working with the event planner on flowers, seating, catering—”
“Wait,” said Ridge, looking up from his pad, his hand raised like a school crossing guard. “Catering? Please tell me you mean Pam’s made contact with Luc Bergeron’s people, not that she thinks she’s cooking for two hundred guests. We’re talking about high rollers who won’t be satisfied with her pot roast and lemon bars.”
They shared a chuckle. “No worries, Dad,” said Thomas. “She gets it. Your buddy Luc’s on the case.”
Ridge’s aunt Pam had a kind heart and enjoyed feeding anybody and everybody, but the fashion show and dinner to honor the anniversary of Stephanie Forrester’s death and raise money for cancer research required the best chef in town. Ridge still regretted that he hadn’t come home to LA to be with his mother during her final days. It had been her wish that he remain in Paris, that he not see her in pain, not witness her dying, and he’d respected it, but the decision haunted him. She’d been such a force of nature, such a dominant presence in his life, and he missed her. She was the Forrester matriarch and it was surreal that she wasn’t around to set the agenda, champion causes and twist arms when necessary.
“Grandmother wouldn’t want to miss an event like this,” said Thomas wistfully.
“She would have run the show top to bottom.” Ridge glanced at the silver-framed photo of his mother that sat on his desk next to the one of RJ, sporting his yellow soccer uniform. “But it sounds like we’re moving forward with it.”
“All that’s left to do is design the gowns and fit the models,” said Thomas. “And that’s in your wheelhouse, Dad.”
Ridge nodded. The “fashion” part of the fashion show fundraiser rested on his shoulders and he felt the pressure. The event was only three months away and while he’d already drawn a number of sketches that satisfied him, it was a complicated process from sketchpad to runway. He needed to bring his concepts to life, see them on the models, feel the fabrics, hear the feedback from his team. Time to step it up.
“You’ll make it happen,” Thomas said, giving his father a loving pat on the shoulder. “You always do. And we’ll raise thousands to honor Grandmother.”
Ridge smiled, grateful for his son’s support.
His cell phone rang: Brooke. He noticed with a bittersweet pang that his heart no longer thumped in his chest at the sight of her name on his caller ID now their conversations were usually about RJ’s welfare: his schoolwork, athletic activities and custodial visits. Very different from the old days, when their lives revolved around their next romantic escapade.
“What’s up, Brooke?” he said while Thomas checked his own phone for messages.
She was agitated—incoherent, hurried, her words flooded with emotion—on top of which her cell signal was breaking up and she kept getting cut off.
“Slowly. I can’t understand you,” he said, suddenly on high alert, knowing it wasn’t like her to break down without good reason.
“Heard on the news … wildfire in Malibu Canyon … Los Padres National Forest … RJ’s …”
Ridge felt his whole body go rigid. “He’s what?”
“At his friend Kyle Hanson’s … Lives nearby … Kyle’s parents are at work … I’m in San Diego … Can’t get back in time, but RJ …”
“Could be in big trouble,” he said, his voice rising, his pulse quickening. His son, their son, was staying at the Hansons’. Depending on where the fire was and in which direction it was moving, RJ could indeed be in grave danger. “I’m on my way.”
*
Ridge drove like a man on a mission. As he headed down toward the Pacific Coast Highway, he was glued to the local radio station that provided periodic news updates. For years, Malibu had been prone to wildfires, backing up to the vast Los Padres National Forest as it did, and California had been grappling with a record-breaking drought combined with high temperatures, low humidity and brittle brush, leaving the state a veritable tinderbox. With howling Santa Ana winds whipping through the canyons, especially in the afternoons and after sundown, conditions were ripe for disaster and firefighters were stretched, their resources at an all-time low.
“The Malibu fire, newly designated the Rancho Fire
, remains at just under five thousand acres, but it’s early going with zero containment,” said the news announcer. “The raging blaze has destroyed a dozen structures in a rural area. So far it’s keeping its distance from the major housing developments. But it’s all about the wind direction, folks. We’re asking the public to be very aware. This is a dangerous, rapidly moving fire. If you are asked by fire officials to evacuate, leave now and remember you will not be allowed back in. If you’re under a voluntary evacuation warning, you’re not required to leave but it would be wise to do so, as conditions can change quickly.”
The announcer went on to list the neighborhoods that were under a mandatory evacuation order and those that were still under a warning only. Kyle’s house was in the warning area, a good ten miles away from the blaze, but that was small comfort. All Ridge cared about was RJ, getting to him, making sure he was safe, taking no chances by bringing him home.
Once he reached the Pacific Coast Highway, there was no mistaking the thick, sulfurous layers of smoke off in the distance, up in the hills, away from the ocean—acrid white-gray billows that indicated the inevitable scarlet flames engulfing everything in their path.
Hurry, he prodded himself, trying to find a balance between driving responsibly and weaving in and out of heavy traffic. He’d tried to reach RJ on his cell phone numerous times but the boy didn’t answer his texts or calls. He’d tried Kyle’s family’s landline but there was no response there either. I’m coming, kid. I love you.
At last Ridge made it to the turnoff that would take him up to Kyle’s house. As he navigated the twisting, narrow canyon roads that snaked their way up to the Hansons’ neighborhood, he could see flames loping over the top of the mountain and his heart dropped down to his knees. It’s still miles away, he reminded himself. They’re not in the mandatory evacuation area. There’s still time.
The smoky air became oppressive, difficult to breathe. Ridge rolled up his car windows and turned on the air conditioner. He was a fashion designer not a firefighter, but he and Brooke had taken a public safety training course after RJ was born, so he knew the basics.
As he pulled into the Hansons’ driveway, he was relieved not to find an inferno, but the feeling didn’t last. A shower of ash rained down on him, trees and branches had fallen to the ground and stray embers licked at the shingle roof of the white wood-frame house. Had the wind direction changed? Was the fire growing closer and faster than predicted?
“RJ! Kyle!” he shouted as he pounded his fist on the front door, knowing they might not hear him; the ferocious wind was so loud it muffled all other sounds. “Open the door!”
Nothing. He couldn’t just stand there like a guest at a party. He had to do something, take action. In one swift motion, he picked up a sizable downed branch and hurled it against a window, shattering it, and climbed inside the living room, threading himself through the shards of broken glass and cutting the skin on his forearms in the process.
“Dad!” RJ flung himself into his father’s chest the instant he entered the house, while Kyle grabbed Ridge from behind. They were both scared, that much was obvious, but otherwise unhurt, Ridge could see. “We were playing video games out by the pool and didn’t know anything was wrong until we saw the smoke. Kyle said we would have gotten a reverse 911 call if we were supposed to get out.” He spoke so rapidly his words ran together and he kept coughing, his throat clogging from the smoke that had become unbearable, but he was trying to put on a brave face.
“It’s okay. But we’ll leave now just to be safe, since Kyle’s parents are probably stuck in traffic trying to get here and we’d better not wait for them.” Ridge turned to RJ’s friend, a skinny ten-year-old with red hair and freckles. “Do you have any bandanas, Kyle? And could you run and get them so we can all breathe easier—quickly?” He tried to keep his demeanor calm so as not to frighten the boys and betray his own sense of urgency, but time was of the essence, mandatory evacuation or not.
Kyle nodded tremulously.
While he hurried off to his bedroom, Ridge checked the Hansons’ landline to try to call the fire department, but there was no dial tone. Chances were that power lines in the area were down along with the phone lines. Kyle returned with a handful of bandanas, his cheeks flushed with anxiety, and Ridge tied the red and blue kerchiefs over the boys’ faces as fast as his fingers could move, covering their noses and mouths before fastening his own.
“Let’s go, boys,” he said, taking each of them by the hand. “We need to get out of here, quick.”
As they exited through the front door, Ridge could hear the faintest sound of sirens against the roar of the gusty winds, the crackling of ever-encroaching flames and the sizzling of the occasional ember against the house’s wood-shake roof. Good news, bad news, he thought as they stepped gingerly toward his waiting car, careful not to trip on branches or debris. Good news that the engines were on their way. Bad news that the wind must have shifted in their direction. How fast things can change, he thought yet again, well aware of past fires and their unpredictable turns.
After he loaded the boys into the back seat of the car and buckled them in, he raced to the house’s front door to make sure he’d left it unlocked in case the fire crews needed easy access.
He was only yards away from reaching for the door’s brass handle when the roof, which had been dusted by what had seemed to be only a few itinerant embers, burst into flames, caving in and collapsing as dramatically as if there had been a demolition. Time froze as a huge, swirling, nightmarish orb of orange swallowed the entire house.
Ridge was thrown to the ground by the force of the fireball, its boom as thunderous as an explosion, like a grenade detonating.
“Dad!” RJ cried. “I’m coming to—”
“Stay in that car!” Ridge shouted, his head in his hands, the blast echoing in his ears, reverberating throughout his body.. “And look away from the house! Both of you!”
“But you’re—”
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” said Ridge. He could feel the lacerations on his face through the now-shredded bandana, but they were just superficial cuts. And the weakness and shakiness in his limbs would pass, he knew. It was his eyes … They were burning as if they had caught fire along with the house. Ridge’s eyes felt seared, charred by the intense light of the flames he’d witnessed at close range. He blinked his lids closed and then opened them again and when he did he saw nothing but darkness, like in the moment after a flash photograph.
I can’t see, he thought with a terrifying jolt. My God, I can’t see!
He didn’t have a moment to waste. Surely the darkness would clear and he’d be able to get in the car and drive the boys to safety, wouldn’t he? As he staggered to his feet he blinked again and again, giving his vision another chance to right itself. It did, but only barely. When he closed and opened his eyes, he saw what looked like a spider web of cracks and very blurry images and shadows. Not good enough to navigate narrow roads that were likely to be strewn with debris and downed power lines. Still, maybe if his son could direct him, point out obstacles in their path, he could do it. He had to do it.
Somehow he managed to reach the car. “RJ, Kyle, help me into the driver’s seat, okay?”
He could hear Kyle sniffing and assumed the boy was in tears. It was his family’s house that was ablaze, after all. And both boys were coughing, having inhaled so much smoke. But they each took one of Ridge’s arms and guided him into the driver’s seat, then strapped themselves back in.
Ridge quickly realized with a sinking feeling that it would be foolhardy to try to drive with vision that was so severely impaired. He didn’t want to be responsible for making an already horrendous situation worse. He needed help, divine or otherwise, and fast.
Desperate, nearly out of his mind with the burning in his eyes and his concern for the boys, he envisioned his mother, seized on the image of the formidable Stephanie Forrester looking down on them with her all-knowing expression, the one she bore in the oil
painting that still hung over his father’s living room fireplace. He pictured her taking charge now, in this crucial moment, making it her business to ensure their safety.
Come on, Mom. I’ve done the best I can. Now it’s your turn.
Suddenly, there was the rumbling of trucks and voices and then the sound of heavy tires crunching against the gravel driveway.
Footsteps came next, and a blur of figures approached the car.
“Sir? We need you to let us take it from here.”
Ridge couldn’t see them clearly, but he could certainly hear the strike team’s commands to him and the boys, sense the firefighters’ firm, gloved hands lifting all of them into an SUV.
*
Many, many hours later, after a procession of doctors at the hospital had asked Ridge questions, poked needles into his veins and sent him for a battery of tests, family members gathered around his bed, two at a time. They reassured him that RJ and Kyle were fine, that they’d been treated and released. And they kept calling him a hero, heralding his bravery and courage and every other laudatory adjective in the dictionary, but Ridge shook his head over and over and made it clear that the pros were the ones who had shepherded them all to safety. He didn’t mention his mother’s part in the rescue; that was his secret. And his family didn’t mention the white bandages that blanketed his eyes and made it impossible for him to see even a shadowy glimpse of them.
RJ’s safe, thought Ridge as he slid into the haze of the medications the nurse had administered. My boy is safe.
Just before he slept, he reached up to touch his eyes and felt the bandages. “I have a fashion show to …” he slurred to the nurse who stood over his bed, adjusting its angle so he could rest more comfortably. “Will my vision come back in time … ?”
He didn’t finish his question, and the nurse didn’t answer it.
Chapter Three
“Great to hear from you,” Caroline said, checking her watch. It was not only early for Hope Logan to be calling—seven a.m. in LA—but they hadn’t spoken in quite a while; since Caroline had left for New York, they’d kept in touch only sporadically. Not because they hadn’t been close—they’d been caring sisters-in-law who’d worked together seamlessly at Forrester Creations, shared confidences and had Rick’s best interests at heart. But recently Hope had kept her distance, sensitive to the fact that Caroline was trying to heal from her breakup with Rick and that constant calls and texts from her would only bring back painful memories. And she was right. After Caroline had seen Ridge at the restaurant opening a few months ago, the old wounds had flared and gnawed at her. She’d spent days after their chance meeting reliving the shock of finding Rick and Maya together, analyzing every conceivable way she could have prevented their affair. And running into Ridge had only ramped up her ill will toward him for stripping Rick of the president’s title and setting in motion the collapse of her marriage, however inadvertently. But she’d emerged from her gloom and doom, and on this crisp autumn morning in Manhattan, she was having a late breakfast with Gigi and feeling pretty good about life. She’d even interviewed with a fashion design house, Leigh Nixon Designs; a competitor of Forrester Creations in the couture market, in fact. She had no idea if she’d get the job, but it was heartening that they’d liked her work enough to schedule a second interview.