by Margot Early
She said, “I don’t care for your vigilantism.”
“Why are you angry with me?”
“I’m not.” But she was. Saying that she wasn’t was just denying an obvious truth. She was angry without a legitimate reason. I’m angry because you’re not declaring undying love for me, was pretty close to the truth, and she definitely wasn’t going to tell him that.
“It was just a mistake to—” She stopped. How could she possibly phrase this semi-lie? I shouldn’t have trusted you? But what trust had he betrayed? I shouldn’t have let you buy me motorcycle leathers? But it had been a generous gift. And she liked her clothes. I shouldn’t have read so much into it?
Why not be honest, Jen?
She was an adult, after all.
“Look,” she said, “you’re an attractive guy. You bought me some really nice clothes, took me riding on your motorcycle, and I know it’s because I’m the mother of your child and you want to be friends.”
“These are the—”
She wouldn’t let him finish. “I’m susceptible. I’m a single mom. The package you present, not the least of it being that you’re the father of my child, is appealing.”
“So you don’t want to talk with me now? And you think buying clothes for a woman is what I do when I want to be ‘friends’ with her?”
“And,” she said, “you’re still emotionally involved with Salma.”
“If I had died in a fire after you and I were lovers, wouldn’t you have remained emotionally involved?”
“You were alive and I didn’t,” she fired back.
The small, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes was oddly triumphant. “I thought you were ‘susceptible.’”
“I’m newly attracted to you.”
“But you admit that it’s partly because I’m the father of your child.”
The man was maddening.
The kitchen door swung open and Robin walked in. The look she gave Jen was disapproving, the kind of expression in which disapproval is concealed by false friendliness toward the source of the conflict. “Max, there you are.”
Here we go, Jen thought. Hadn’t Robin been a naysayer whenever Jen had found someone new? Maybe this was just her mother’s usual attempt to control every situation around her.
Anger surged through Jen, and it was an old rage. Rage over not being allowed to see her father. Rage over being taken to the women’s shelter, of all places, and there being forced to participate in Robin’s manufactured dramas. What was the worst part was that sometimes Jen had believed her mother was afraid. Which meant that sometimes she’d believed her mother’s fear had a reason. Yet her adult understanding of the situation was that her father would never have hurt Teresa or Jen.
Had he ever harmed Robin physically? Jen doubted it. She could imagine her father losing his temper, maybe turning over the breakfast table in frustration, but she couldn’t imagine him pushing, shoving, manhandling or striking a woman. That didn’t mean it was okay to overturn the furniture. That was simply the limit of what she could imagine her father doing. And today it would undoubtedly be enough for a restraining order. But her father’s temper had been part of her childhood reality. And he’d found her mother infuriating, Jen knew that. He’d wanted to see his daughters, and virtually every time he tried Robin Delazzeri had been willing to lie and to act to prevent him access.
Often, her mother had said things like, Well, we could all go to the movies. She used to call up Gino and suggest an outing involving the four of them, refusing to acknowledge that he was dating someone else or simply that he never wanted to spend any time with Robin that wasn’t absolutely essential because she made his life hell and he didn’t trust her.
Looking at her mother now, Jen thought, I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive you.
What if Elena never forgave her, Jen, for not letting her see Max in the first decade of her life?
Max murmured to Jen, “We’re not done.”
Her pulse quickened, and she wished it hadn’t; wished it never would around him.
“You’re far away, Jen.” Her mother said what her mother had always said when her youngest daughter was daydreaming.
“Not so far,” Jen answered without thinking.
Max turned away with a knowing grin and grabbed the coffee decanter, which he filled with water. He poured the water into the reservoir of the coffeemaker and turned to the freezer to take out coffee beans. “Coffee, Robin?”
“No, thank you. I never drink it. Like Jen.”
“Any reason?” Max asked.
“Coffee stains your teeth and, in my case,” Jen said, “does a nasty number on my skin. In television, neither of these is desirable.”
“I can see,” he said, “how Elena became so conscious of protecting herself for her career. I just asked her again if she’d like a surfing lesson.”
“Afraid of injury?” Jen asked. This trait of her daughter’s concerned and sometimes embarrassed her. What if life doled out some injury that Elena was simply unable to prevent?
“Elena is sensible,” Robin said rather fiercely.
“Yes,” Jen agreed less enthusiastically. “She’s sensible. But she’s overcautious. You know she is. And no one can stand in the way of life and death. Things…happen.”
“Not if you’re careful.”
How could Robin have made it to adulthood believing this? Jen herself didn’t believe it, and she’d known less death than her mother had. It was like people who believed that if they prayed they would receive physical protection from God. Did they think people who were burned or murdered didn’t pray? Did they think the victims of war didn’t pray? In any mature faith, physical protection was neither the point nor the promise.
She herself rarely prayed, yet she’d had a fortunate life so far.
“Mom,” Jen said, unwilling to avoid this particular argument. “What if, God forbid, something happens to Elena? Say she’s crossing the street and is hit by a drunk driver?”
“She’s too careful for that.”
Her mother, Jen knew, would not be persuaded, would not admit that such a thing could happen to one of hers while she herself lived and breathed. But, sooner or later, Elena was going to have to face the problems that came with being too cautious—and the impossibility of completely protecting oneself from peril. Jen sincerely hoped that her daughter could accept this rationally and that she wouldn’t someday have it brought home in more painful fashion.
Robin said, “Also, Elena’s a very feminine sort of girl. Not like Jen.”
“I’m not feminine?”
“Muay Thai is not the most feminine of sports.”
“I think Jen is the most feminine woman I know,” Max said, and Jen wondered if he made a habit of over-the-top assertions.
“You must not know many women,” Robin said.
Mother!
“I came to see if you’d noticed,” Robin told Jen, “that the chip bowls are empty. They need to be refilled or cleaned up.”
This was a challenge, one Jen wouldn’t touch. Her mother was no Suzy Homemaker. She never ran after chip bowls, full or empty.
“Actually,” Jen said, “Max and I are having a work-related conversation that we need to finish.” And I’m secure enough in my femininity that I’m not taking your pathetic bait.
“It’s a priority,” Max said.
“He’s brewing coffee.”
Jen watched his carefully unchanging expression. Cleft chin, earnest eyes, nothing given away. But she knew what he was doing. Thinking. Thinking about Robin Delazzeri, about her attitude toward him, about if and how he should respond.
“And I don’t expect you to grind these coffee beans,” he said. “But since we keep being interrupted—” he invented shamelessly “—I thought you might want to run upstairs and change so we can go for a spin.”
“Not on that motorcycle!”
Of all the perils in Robin Delazzeri’s world, few were to be compared with motorcycles, with the possible ex
ception of trampolines.
Jen knew motorcycles were dangerous. She knew her chances of dying on Max’s bike were greater than the chance of dying in an automobile accident. But she wasn’t suicidal and riding on a motorcycle driven by an experienced biker, which Max was, did not equal suicide.
“Sure, let me go up and change.”
“Could you bring down my stuff, too?”
From his room. He’d never invited Jen inside before. He must really want to annoy Robin.
Well, so did Jen. “Of course, sweetie.”
Robin stalked out of the kitchen without another word.
“WHEN ARE YOU GOING to take Elena to meet your father?” Jen asked when he’d pulled up outside the coffee shop where she’d waited for him two days before. He’d left the coffeemaker at the fire house set up with fresh grounds, ready to brew in the morning.
They ordered black coffee—Max—and Sleepytime Tea—Jen—and sat outside watching a red sun set beyond the channel.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “I hope you’ll come, too. Actually, we’re invited to lunch at my father’s country club.”
“Oh, just a little pressure for everyone,” Jen said before she could stop herself.
“Just pretend you’re at home and treat him like you would your mother.”
Jen burst out laughing. “You’re not serious.”
“I hope he won’t make you feel the temptation. But he may.” Max changed the subject. “Let’s go back to your interesting statement about my emotional involvement with Salma. I’m surprised I need to make clear to you that she’s dead, she died thirteen years ago, and I’m no longer in love with her.”
Just as long as no one has to make that clear to you, Jen thought.
He touched her wrist, which lay on the table. “Jen, I’m a little wary of you.”
“Why? I’m about the most harmless person…”
“That’s how you see yourself?” He burst out laughing.
“How do you see me?” she asked.
“Fiery. All fire. Hot-spirited, passionate, quick to fight, quick to get over it. You also know who you are. And you can be a bit intimidating. Tonight, I think I saw why.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“Meaning no disrespect to your mother.”
“Meaning that I’m like her.”
“What I meant is that survival must have required you to learn to stand up for yourself, for what you believe. And I don’t want to hurt you as I did the last time.”
Her heart sank. As far as she knew, it was 100 percent true that when someone said, I don’t want to hurt you, it was because they thought they were going to.
“How would you hurt me?” she asked, telling herself she no longer cared and that he would pay, pay for jerking her emotions around after she’d said she was afraid of that very thing.
“By being cowardly.”
“Cowardly?” This made no sense.
At that moment, an electronic “Waltz of the Flowers” played. Max grabbed his cell phone. “Our daughter’s choice,” he said.
Our daughter. If he’d said, your daughter, what would her feelings be?
Not good. Maybe she was quick-tempered, as he’d said. She knew she could be judgmental.
“Max,” he said and listened. “Yeah… Yeah…” He peered around Jen, his eyes suddenly keen. She swung her head and smelled smoke—distant yet too close. “He just wants us to portray him in a positive light. He wants to be the star. Don’t go.”
A moment’s conversation at the other end. A woman’s voice. Teresa must have called him. Jen desperately wanted to know where the fire was, what was going on.
“Makal Canyon’s our project, but you’re right, Teresa. I can’t stop you. Would you please put Bob on?” Listening. “I’m sure he does feel the same way. Would you please put him on?” In the next moment, Max said in a low voice to Jen, “There’s a fire in Montecito Hills. Lots of big, expensive homes and an urban/wildland interface.”
In other words, the fire was either on public lands or could stray there.
“Richard wants us to go film him being IC, a sort of Where We Are Now.”
“Bob absolutely should not go there, not after…”
“Bob?” Max spoke into the phone. “Hey, I don’t think you want to be over there. If this has to happen, let Pete film it, and not ’cause I think you can’t do it. I know you can. But you don’t need to pay that price… I hear you, but I’m still saying no. Please don’t do this. Yes. Yes. Yes.” After a few moments’ conversation, he shut his phone. “He’s going. I couldn’t talk him out of it. And they’re going over there now, while there’s still daylight.”
“I don’t want Elena there.”
“Don’t you think your mother will prevent that?”
“She’ll certainly try. But I think she finds your work romantic, Max. She might want to see…”
“At this point,” he said, “with our crew heading over there, let’s get to that fire. Then you can take Elena home in the van if she’s there.”
“But I need to be part of this, too. I need to interview…”
His eyes met hers, and she knew he was thinking that most of his arguments to Bob applied to her, as well. So he dialed Elena’s cell phone, and their daughter answered. “Hi, Elena. What are you up to?” A pause. “Oh, yeah? What movie?…. Just checking. You don’t belong at the fire. I just wanted to make sure you know that.” Elena’s voice in the background, terse and probably sassy. “Okay, then. Your mom and I will see you later.”
Max shut the phone with a troubled expression, a puzzled expression as well, as though he didn’t understand his own reaction to what he’d just heard. “She didn’t want to go. They’re watching Love, Actually, on DVD.”
“Good,” Jen said. “Why do you look that way?”
“She said she didn’t want to come,” Max said slowly, “because it’s dangerous. She could get hurt.”
“That’s true,” Jen pointed out.
“I guess so.”
But she knew he was thinking what she was. That Elena’s inherent caution came from an unhealthy source—the belief that if she was cautious enough, she’d have a successful career as a ballerina.
And that wasn’t necessarily the case.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“THESE PEOPLE ARE HERE with my permission,” Richard said to a colleague in a clean fire shirt, as Max and Jen, Bob, Teresa and Pete joined him at the incident command post. He made introductions to his BLM colleague.
It was smoky outside, the kind of smoky haze that Jen knew would filter up to Santa Barbara until the fire was out. In the sudden warm Santa Ana winds Jen had felt outside the coffeehouse, it had grown to 250 acres, and already two homes had been lost.
Jen quickly became absorbed in the project. She felt less tension from Max than she had expected. She knew his private feud with Richard had become a two-way street. She’d heard Richard at the barbecue; heard blame he’d tried to place on Max. Also, Richard was now incident commander on a good-sized fire, and Max wanted to move into that kind of job. So he was judging Richard, but Jen suspected he was still learning from him, as well, even if Max might not admit that.
The timing of the phone call couldn’t have been worse. Why had Max called himself a coward?
As they waited at a command post, a sobbing woman walked past, keening.
“A pet,” Teresa said.
“Oh, God.” Jen’s heart ached. I want to get away from this world. No doubt the woman had also lost her home, but Jen knew she would especially hate to lose her own cat that way.
“People need to realize,” Richard was saying for the camera, “that they must assume some responsibility in where they choose to build their homes.”
“We’re using that,” Jen said to Teresa. “That’s the point about Makal Canyon that no one wants to publicly make.”
“I mean, if it were me, I wouldn’t want anyone to lose his life defending my home,” Richard said, “and no one does want that.”
/>
Jen stepped forward, “But, Richard, I have the impression that it’s more common for fire supervisors to take aggressive action when homes are threatened.”
“Absolutely. And that’s the right thing to do. But in certain fire situations it becomes impossible to defend structures. That’s a fact.”
Richard was going out on a limb with his honesty, and Jen was certain his supervisors would not appreciate his candor.
As Richard made a motion for Bob to turn off the camera, he said, “That’s all the time I can give you right now, but feel free to stick around.”
“Thank you,” Jen said sincerely. “What you just gave us was very good.”
Yet she couldn’t help noticing that the fire, Richard’s involvement, and this performance had successfully turned attention from his part in the tragedy at Makal Canyon.
ELENA WAS ASLEEP when Jen knocked lightly on her bedroom door, then looked in. Or that was Jen’s first impression. Then, her daughter spoke. “Hi, Mom. How was the fire?”
“Ghastly.” And Jen could still smell the smoke on her clothes and in her hair and knew she would smell it when she showered. She sat on the edge of Elena’s bed, and her daughter wrinkled her nose. “I know,” Jen said. “I wanted to talk to you about something, but it’s late.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s just… Elena, I know you want to be a ballerina. You know it’s very competitive, don’t you?”
“Of course. But I’m pretty good, and I have time to get better. And if you let me go to a performing arts school…”
“Elena, I just mean that sometimes things happen in life that aren’t within your control. I hope, probably almost as much as you do, that you’re able to achieve what you want in life. But you could…” How did she voice these concerns to a twelve-year-old.
“Don’t count my chickens before they hatch. Grandma always tells me that.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant. I just want you to live, to have fun, not to feel you have to treat yourself like spun glass. Oh, I don’t even know if I’m right, Elena. Maybe you’re wise not to do anything that might jeopardize your future chances of becoming a dancer. It just seems to me, sometimes, that you’re sacrificing too much. This is a cliché but one with truth: You’re only young once. There are all kinds of chances. Be careful you’re not missing other valuable opportunities in order to secure this one thing.”