Rae
Gulp.
I’ve kinda always suspected I might be the world’s biggest moron. At the very least, I tend to forget that useful tool called a filter.
Now, sitting on Rose’s patio with the California sunshine all around, there’s no denying it.
If my mother were here, she’d beg the ground to swallow her. “Your…” I cough once. “Your friends, they’re…”
“Dead.”
Dead. Dang it. I need to get my head out of my rear and refocus.
Rose picks up her water, eyeing the glass for a moment before taking a dainty sip. Even her sips are high class. Me? I chug it, wishing the whole time it was straight vodka.
I set my glass back down and watch as she positions her water directly in the center of her ceramic coaster. She then moves it barely a sixteenth of an inch, grabs a napkin, and blots the condensation that has dripped around the coaster.
“They’re gone,” she says, her gaze still on the glass. “They were in the casino when the fire broke out.”
The casino. What a nightmare. It occupied the first level of the hotel, the entire space enclosed by floor-to-ceiling glass walls that trapped most of the victims.
Finally, Rose meets my gaze. “Back then,” she continues, “zoning regulations didn’t require exit doors to swing out. When the fire engulfed the back half of the first floor, everyone charged toward the front entrance. In the panic, those leading were either trampled or crushed against doors that wouldn’t open.”
I knew this. My research—articles, photos, witness accounts—had clued me in. The victims experienced their own version of an incinerator. The terror is unfathomable and, as I always do, I push the images—stacks of charred bodies, human remains loaded into refrigerated trucks—from my mind. All those people dying so needlessly is too much.
Having never experienced such horror first-hand, I can’t begin to understand Rose’s grief. “Oh, Rose. I’m so sorry.”
She drags her focus from me. Beyond the pool about twenty yards down is a small cottage. A guest house maybe. Whatever it is, Rose locks her gaze on it and lets out a soft sigh. “It was a long time ago. I do miss them, though. They were good people. Gayle and I? Oh, we knew how to have a good time. She used to stay in the guest house when she visited. I had to adjust to her being gone.”
Again, I feel a stab. Like someone sticking an ice pick right into my chest. Stick, stick, stick. I chug my water again, closing my eyes while the cold liquid works down my throat. I drain the glass, then pour another. Just in case. So much for being a neutral journalist. All this death and heartbreak doesn’t seem fair.
So many victims.
“Rae?”
I set the pitcher down and shake my head. “It’s just so…horrible.”
“It is. I simply cannot imagine what it must have been like dying in that casino. It haunts me. For years, I’ve said how thankful I am that we didn’t have Phillip with us. The fire happened at his nap time. And then there’s poor Loretta Lonnie. That beautiful woman. Such a loss.”
Loretta, a bombshell model and actress, had been at the Grande and died in the fire. Long rumored to have a substance problem, Loretta was found her in her bed, dead from smoke inhalation. Gossip had it she’d been so intoxicated she never woke up when the alarms went off.
Given her high profile, I’d found tons of press on her death. None of it, however, mentioned a link to the Trudeaus. “Did you know her?”
“Yes. She wasn’t a client, but we’d been at several functions together. Fundraisers, premieres, that sort. After she died, Simon helped her heir with a licensing deal.” She shakes it off. “That damned fire. It shattered so many lives.”
“Exactly why I want to do this piece. So people remember the Grande. Remember your friends. That’s what I want. I mean, Rose, for such an extreme event, it’s barely mentioned anymore. Sure, if I search the Internet, I’ll find a bazillion articles, but only if I search. Most have long forgotten about the Grande.”
Rose jerks her head. “You’re right. But why is it so important to you? Aside from it being an anniversary piece. There are thousands of stories out there. Why this one?”
I’m not sure what to tell her. I mean, admitting I’ve been obsessed with her since I saw that Time magazine cover conveys a definite she’s-psycho vibe.
But it’s not exactly her I’m obsessed with. It’s her existence. On the surface, she’s led this privileged Bel-Air life, truly had everything. She’s the American dream. A young, ambitious woman making her own way in the world meets a handsome, accomplished lawyer and they build their empire. Add the successful children and Rose Trudeau’s life is a regular fairy tale.
Except for the fire. A tragedy so profound it altered hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.
I want to root around inside her and figure out how one moves on from that.
I lean in and meet her gaze. “This will sound crazy, but I think your story can help people.” She opens her mouth to speak, but I lift my hand. “Wait. Please. Just think about it. When people look at you, they see a woman who, on the surface, has everything. But, underneath all that, you’ve suffered from this fire. I think you could be an inspiration to so many people who’ve endured tragedy but can’t move on. You can change people’s lives.”