Spur of the Moment (21 page)

36

Flashover

T
he sound of the car slamming into the tree was horrible: the thud of impact, the glass breaking, the metal crunching. Ana had hit her head on the dash. She touched her forehead and felt the slippery wet blood. Dazed, her head aching, she tried to focus her eyes and saw that the entire front end of the car was smashed up like an accordion.

The car was totaled. But as she got her head together, she realized that wasn't even important: The important thing was Chelsey. Chelsey didn't look injured, but if she kept hyperventilating, she would lose consciousness, possibly even slip into a coma. Ana scanned Chelsey's car for something Chelsey could breathe into.

“Chelsey, everything is going to be okay, don't worry. Calm down, please? Shh shh shh. Sweetie, everything is going to be fine. Rob is fine, don't worry.”

There weren't any paper bags to be found in Chelsey's car. The one time when eating fast food—and leaving the empty bag in the car—might actually have been healthy.

Chelsey did have a water bottle in the cup holder on the consol. Ana tore off the top and commanded Chelsey to breathe into the empty bottle. “Make sure to seal the opening around your face. Chelsey, Chelsey, listen to me.”

Chelsey never did breathe into the water bottle. She began breathing normally on her own. “What happened?” she asked, as if coming out of a trance. “You're bleeding.”

“We ran into a tree. I think your car is totaled, but the important thing is that we're—”

“Rob! We have to get to Rob!”

“Chelsey. We got into an accident. We're not going anywhere. I'm going to call the police—”

“I'll run. I'll run the rest of the way to the hospital. It's only a couple of miles away.” Chelsey opened up the door and got outside. Ana ran out after her and grabbed her by the wrist.

“Chelsey, you're not going anywhere. In the state you're in, you're going to get run over by a car or something. Anyway, we need to file a report with the police and get a tow truck to tow your car. That won't take very long. I'll call Jason or Scott or Ram to come pick us up and take us to the hospital.”

“Can't you just wait here for the police by yourself?”

“Chelse, it's your car. You'll need to give them all the information. Listen, I'll call Scott and ask him to go to the hospital and tell us what's going on.”

Ana made a series of calls on her cell phone. She wasn't able to get through to Jason or Ramiro, but at least Scott was home. She asked him to go to the hospital and find out what the situation was.

“Can't I just call the hospital and see if he's okay?” Scott asked.

“Oh. Maybe. I hadn't thought of that. But what about confidentiality? They'll probably think you're a reporter trying to get the scoop.”

“And if I go to the hospital, they'll tell me everything I want to know?”

“Tell them you're his half brother, I don't know. Just go!”

Ana clicked her phone off, and then she and Chelsey waited. And waited. Chelsey was beside herself. She paced up and down the street. Ana did her best to keep up with her, ready to tackle her if she tried to take off to the hospital.

At last the cops and the tow truck driver arrived, and then the paperwork began. Chelsey felt like the paperwork was lava spewing out of a volcano, and she was trying to stop it by hand. No matter what she did, more slipped through. It just kept coming and coming.

All the while, Ana and Scott kept calling each other with updates. Scott couldn't get any news. He didn't even know if Rob was the firefighter who'd been injured.

“They won't tell me anything.”

“Crap. Okay, can you come pick me and Chelsey up and take us to the hospital?”

Finally Chelsey finished with the paperwork and the tow truck took her car off to wherever broken cars go to die.

Chelsey and Ana waited on the curb for Scott. Chelsey barely waited for him to come to a stop before she threw open his car door and jumped inside.

Once at the hospital, Chelsey told a nurse she was Rob Night's fiancée, the firefighter who had been injured in the fire. Was he all right?

The nurse said she didn't know, he was still in surgery. That's how they learned it was in fact Rob who had been injured.

“Surgery. Jesus. Surgery.” Chelsey paced and paced. She didn't fall asleep all night. Ana and Scott did their best to comfort her, until eventually they fell asleep at awkward angles in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs.

Chelsey was still awake at six in the morning when the morning news came on.

“Oh my god!” Chelsey balanced on a chair to turn the silent television's volume on.

“Our top story this morning is a fire that took the lives of two local firefighters and injured a third.”

The sound of the television awoke Ana. “Ahh,” she groaned. Her neck was tense with pain from sleeping sitting up. She tried to focus her groggy eyes toward the noise of the television. Scott kept sleeping.

“The fire started in a three-story home in Denver's Capitol Hill neighborhood on Sixth near Downing when a ten-year-old and his six-year-old sister, who were home alone, tried to make popcorn on the stove. Firefighters responded to the blaze at 8:45 last night. Two didn't make it out.

“Local fire authorities are calling Ken Lopresti, Carol Marklund, and Rob Night heroes this morning after the courageous battle that ultimately took the lives of Lopresti and Marklund and injured Night.” Chelsey gasped and reached for Ana's hand. “Lopresti and Marklund died in the fire after the roof collapsed and they were trapped under the debris. Other firefighters were unable to get to them through the flames.

“Night was injured when he jumped out a third-story window in an effort to avoid a flashover that would have certainly killed him. Night survived the incident, suffering a broken ankle and a sprained wrist.”

“A broken ankle! A sprained wrist!” Chelsey practically cheered with joy, like it was the best news she'd ever heard.

Just then, a male doctor in his early thirties approached Ana and Chelsey. “Are you Chelsey McGuiness, Rob Night's friend?”

“Yes.”

“Rob is going to be fine. He had a bad break to his ankle. We had to operate on it to be sure it didn't set wrong, but he's going to be just fine. He'll be in a cast for six to eight weeks and he sprained his wrist, but with regular cold compresses, he should have the use of his hands in no time.”

“Can I see him?”

The doctor nodded. “He's still a little groggy from the pain medication. But you can see him.”

“When can I take him home?”

“We'll watch him for a few hours, and if it looks like he's doing well and there's no risk of clotting, I'd say you can take him home this evening. Follow me.”

Chelsey followed the doctor down the hall to Rob's room. The doctor left so they could be alone.

“What are you doing here? How did you hear?” Rob asked.

“I heard it on the news last night. I've been crying my eyes out for twelve hours straight and I thought you were dead and I'd lost you.” She snuggled next to him. They lay in silence for several minutes. Chelsey just held him tight. Eventually she said, “What happened? The reporter said you were running to avoid a flashover.”

“Yeah.”

“What is that?”

“A flashover—remember when I told you about a backdraft? A flashover is basically the opposite. It happens when the fire has
lots
of oxygen to consume. All these flammable gases pool up at the ceiling. And when they ignite, the flames roll like a ball across the ceiling but it happens in a flash, bam! Just like that, and intense heat pours down from all around. Like a building collapse, heat drops to floor level. In other words, if you're trapped in a room when this happens, you're gonna be one crispy critter.”

“Doesn't your fire gear protect you?”

“Yeah, but it can only do so much. If you're in a room that hot for too long—which is hardly any time at all in that heat—the water in your body turns to steam and you literally cook from the inside out.”

Chelsey gasped.

“So I was in the middle of the hallway when I saw the flames rolling across the ceiling toward me, and I just sprinted down the hallway and jumped out the window, and the flames followed me out and rolled out right over me.”

“Oh my god.”

“When I landed I felt this unbelievable pain in my ankle. But it could have been a lot worse.”

Neither of them said anything, thinking about how it had been much worse for Rob's fellow firefighters.

“They were friends of yours?” Chelsey asked in a quiet voice.

“They were from another station. She's just thirty-two. She has—had—two kids. And Ken, he was supposed to get married this spring.”

“I'm so sorry.” She didn't say anything for a beat. “You're going to look for a new job, right? I mean when you're feeling better.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Rob, I love you. I don't want you to get hurt.”

He shook his head.

“Please don't go back to fighting fires.”

“Chelsey, it's what I do. I love it. I'll have some time off to get my leg fixed up and then I'm going back. It's got good benefits, it's a good job.”

“But it's so dangerous. I don't want you to go back.”

“Last time I checked you didn't get to make the decisions for me,” he snapped.

“I didn't . . . I'm just worried about you. I love you.”

His expression softened. “I know you do. I love you too.”

Chelsey sat next to him all day until he was cleared to go home. She held his hand the entire time. She had feared she'd lost him; now she never wanted to let him go.

37

In the Shadows of the Limelight, Part Two

T
en days had gone by, and still no word from Jay.

Marin had long days at work to keep herself occupied, but there was so much time she spent on the sidelines, waiting to perform, and she was left with far too much time to think about him.

She tried to spend her time waiting to perform memorizing her lines, but she was having a hell of a time concentrating. Typically they got their lines the morning or the night before they were going to shoot. She did her best to remember her lines and her cues—she had no idea what anyone else was saying. She also had to work hard to remember her marks—twice Jessica had stepped too far forward or too far to one side of her marks and earned the fiery ire of the director and cameramen. There wasn't time to re-shoot a scene several times. You got a rehearsal and then you got in front of the camera and got it right.

Worse than being alone with her thoughts and insecurities and what-ifs (What if he forgot what hotel I was staying at? What if I never see him again? What if he wasn't really attracted to me?) was having to chat with her fellow actors. Devin was cool—she'd been in the business for a while and hadn't let the success of getting on a TV series go to her head. Bennett didn't say much, so he was okay, but Jessica and Aryan-nation Conrad and what she had formerly considered to be cute Alex (his arrogant personality had rid her of any attraction to him) had managed to develop egos of superstars in no time at all rather than the beginners they actually were.

They had no trouble talking about themselves, but any time Marin tried to steer the conversation around to more general topics—the situation in the Middle East, the film and television industries in general, pop culture, or world events—they were at a loss.

The three women had a five
A.M
. makeup call and had to be on the set by six. By one o'clock when they called a lunch break, Marin felt like she was going to pass out from hunger. The studio had, as usual, brought in a miniscule salad with an ounce or so of various low-fat protein—fish, skinned chicken, turkey breast.

This was ridiculous. The guys got real lunches; the women were given twigs and tomatoes and fat-free flavor-free dressing.

“Is there any way I could get some bread with this?” Marin asked the assistant who'd brought them their lunches. The assistant looked at her as if she'd asked for a platter of baby brains. “A sandwich? A bowl of soup? Another salad? Anything?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Marin would just have to remember to pack her own lunches. She'd meant to do that, but by the time she staggered home to bed every night and checked the phone to see if he'd called, she was too tired and too disappointed to go to the grocery store. Or to do anything more than go to bed, thinking about what she'd done wrong, wondering why he hadn't called. It had been ten days. Ten! She'd never gone ten days waiting for a call from a guy.

The assistant brought Marin a fruit salad. Marin sighed. It wasn't much, but it was something.

“So what did you think of how I played my scene?” Jessica asked. Jessica's character, Marissa, worked as a waitress by day. In the scene that had been shot this morning, Marissa had encountered a group of drunk businessmen who at first hit on her and then when they were rebuffed, started joking with each other, saying things like, “I don't know, Jerry, don't take it too hard, you can do better than a waitress.” “Hey guys, I bet she's not really a waitress, I bet she's really an
actress.”
Hearty laughs all around. “Oh no, I'm sure she's working on her master's degree.” “Probably studying to be a doctor.” More laughs.

It was all very meaningful because earlier in the day, when Jessica/Marissa hadn't gotten the part she'd auditioned for, she was wondering if she really was an actress or she was going to be waiting tables for the rest of her life, and if so, was it time to throw in the towel and start working on a different career?

“I wanted her to look hurt, obviously,” Jessica was saying, “but I, um, also thought she would show a certain degree of resolve beneath her hurt feelings. A glimmer of steely determination. Did you catch the way I lowered my voice an octave to suggest both that I was trying to keep from crying, sort of that husky pre-tears thing, and that I was coldly indifferent to their hurtful remarks?”

“You did great,” Marin said.

“It was a good scene,” Devin said.

“I don't really think Marissa is a victim, you know? I think, um, she's a fighter, and I really wanted to convey that to the audience. It was really such an acting challenge.”

Marin and Devin exchanged a look. They were grateful when lunch was over and they had to go back to work.

M
arin got home from work at 9:30 that night. The light on the phone in her hotel room was blinking.

Do not get excited. Do not get excited.
It was probably her mother. Out of nowhere, suddenly her mother had started taking an interest in Marin. Joan had acted as though all these years Marin had performed in plays with school, with the Iron Pyrits, and even for pay at Spur of the Moment had been a silly hobby of Marin's, something to kill time. Now that her daughter had gotten recognition from real-live players in the industry, it was finally real to her, not some silly side interest. Joan reported how she was bragging to all her friends about Marin's success, and kept telling Marin how proud she was.

Marin called for her messages. “Hi Marin,” the message began. Marin's heart seized. It was a male voice. “This is Jay Prochazka. We met about a week ago.”
Try ten days. Ten long days, buddy.
“I was wondering if you would like to get together Tuesday. I'm on the road a lot, so let me give you my cell phone number.”

Marin wrote down the number and considered. Should she call him right now? She had to be on the set on Tuesday; Friday was her day off. Please dear God, let him be free on Friday.

Before she could decide whether to call him right away or not, her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Is this Marin?”

“Yes.”

“This is Jay. How've you been?”

“I'm great! How are you?” She was so happy, she couldn't keep the joy out of her voice. She knew she should play it cool, but she was so excited she was practically jumping up and down—well, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet anyway.

“Did you get my message?”

“I just finished listening to it. I just got home.”

“So are you free Tuesday?”

“I have to be on the set Tuesday. Friday is my day off this week.” Please be able to get together Friday, please be able to get together Friday . . .

He sounded a little miffed. “I'll have to check my schedule. I'll get back to you. I'll call you soon. Talk to you later.”

He'd hung up before she could say good-bye. God she hoped he'd call her back. She couldn't believe what a short, strange conversation that had been.

Marin looked around the room. She was exhausted, but she didn't want to get ready for bed. She didn't want to be washing her face or brushing her teeth when he called.

10:03. 10:07. 10:11. 10:18.

Okay, maybe she should hop in the shower. He'd definitely call while she was in the shower.

So she did. She showered like it was a timed Olympic sporting event. She washed, shampooed, brushed her teeth and was out of the shower in four minutes flat. He hadn't called.

10:46. 11:02. She couldn't sleep. She was too wired. He'd meant he would call her back tonight, hadn't he?

Two endlessly long hours after his first call, he called back. “It's all been arranged. Friday will work out just fine.”

“Great. So what have you been up to?”

“You know, I'm on the road and could lose the signal any minute. Do you mind if we catch up Friday?”

“Oh, of course. See you then.” Marin hung up. It was 11:30 at night, and she was delirious from lack of sleep and excitement, but that had been such an odd conversation. Some guys just didn't like talking on the phone. That was probably all there was to it.

The next day at work, Joey the cameraman pulled Marin aside as other members of the crew fiddled with the lighting.

“What is it?” she asked.

His eyes scanned the room to make sure no one could overhear them. “Watch your back.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just be careful. Jessica . . . I've overheard her a few times trying to talk Don into giving her some of your lines. She's saying stuff like you're not focused and it would be better if her character said these things than your character.”

Marin was surprised by how much this stung. “Was she successful?”

“No way. She keeps missing her marks. If anything, her character will get less and less to say.”

“Thanks Joey.”

“You're a good kid. I know this is all new to you. I'm just saying, you can't trust anybody.”

Marin was unsettled. She was used to improv, where everyone was equal and everything was done for the group, not for the individual. It hurt that Jessica would go behind her back like that. This dog-eat-dog world was going to take some getting used to.

 

 

A
t noon on Friday, Jay picked Marin up at the hotel in an Aston Martin Vanquish.

“Nice car,” she said, trying not to gape.

“I like it. I thought we'd do a picnic at a park. What do you think? I've got a basket all packed,” he said.

“I'm happy to eat anywhere as long as I get free food.”

“It's a deal then.”

As he took off down the road he asked if she liked working in television.

“I love it. It's insane and exhausting and there is all this politics and backstabbing and everybody is out for themselves, but I love the acting so much. It's just so exciting. If the series doesn't get picked up, I don't know how I'm going to go back to working a boring temp job.”

“It's important to love what you do.”

“Did you love doing what you did?”

“I loved it, I really did. But for about four years there, all I did was work. I ate at work, I slept at work more times than I want to remember, I lived for work. I had no life. I kept getting dumped by my girlfriends because they were sick of me spending more time on my job than on them. I enjoyed building a good company, but now I'm happy to just enjoy life.”

“Have you always had money?”

“My parents did well. My dad was also a businessman and entrepreneur. My mom came from money, too, and investing it was what she did for a living.”

“So they gave you the money to start your business?”

“I started out with $10,000 of my own money and a computer. Eventually some venture capital, including some from my dad, helped me grow the business. I think Dad was a little cautious about giving me money at first because—I wasn't the best student, let's put it that way. I'd gotten into some trouble, a lot of trouble actually, and he wanted to see that I had really straightened myself out. I think working so hard is what straightened me out. I had something to really focus on besides just having a good time. Of course, now I'm back to just enjoying life and having a good time.”

He drove to Hancock Park in Los Angeles, a mostly residential neighborhood. He drove down a secluded back road. It had a gate, but the gate was open. They drove quite a ways down the windy road, and Marin noted the tennis court, the enormous swimming pool, and the gorgeously landscaped lawn. He stopped in an out-of-the-way spot filled with trees, sumptuous flower beds, and a small creek. This is where he unfurled the blanket.

“Wow, this is beautiful. Why is there no one here?” she asked.

“It's a private park.”

“What do you mean private?”

“I mean this is my backyard.”

“You're joking. But where is your house?”

“You know when we came to that gate and the road forked two ways? If you went the other way, you'd come to the house. You can see it if you look over that way.”

“You're not referring to that sprawling mansion-castle-like thing are you?”

“Yep. My landscapers worked hard to make it as secluded as possible.”

“Yeah, the forest does a nice job, but what with it being, what, 30,000 square feet, it's a tad hard to conceal entirely. Just how much did you sell your business for?”

“Quite a lot. Anyway, the house is only 22,000 square feet.”

“Oh, I see, only 22,000 square feet smack dab in the middle of one of the most expensive cities in the world.”