Harry. He looked stricken, lost. Forgetting her own pain, she reached out and squeezed his hand. And for just a moment, Harry held on to her. He sank down on the couch as if his legs couldn’t support him any longer.
“What do you mean Paul was on that flight? He’s right here.”
Slowly she shook her head. “No, Paul left England this morning.”
“But he can’t leave. He’s the writer. This is his story. He always hangs around the set when we’re filming his stories.”
She wished it was true. She wished that when she turned around, she could see Paul, tall, angular Paul, with his hands in his pockets, shaking the shaggy mane of blond hair and biding his time until he could form the right words with which to ease Harry along in the right direction. But she knew she never would again.
“You fired him.”
Harry rose, agitated, lost. “I didn’t fire him,” he shouted, a child denying an accusation for an action he couldn’t remember. He ripped both hands through his hair, tugging so hard he pulled several strands out, then dragged his hands over his face.
In defeat, he let them drop. They hung at his sides, useless. There was nothing to hold onto anymore. Paul had been his rock, his steadying force. They had fought, he had railed, but there was always Paul to make things safe. Paul was home base.
“And even if I did, I was always firing him.”
“This time, it stuck.”
He dropped down beside her on the couch again. The voice was small, hopeful in the midst of hopelessness. “Maybe he missed the flight.”
She shook her head slowly. “No, he was on it. I feel it.”
Johanna reached out for his shoulder to support herself as she tried to rise, but Harry had shifted away from her, away in his frustrated confusion. She sighed and let her hand fall. Bracing herself, she swung her legs off the couch and tested to see if they had regained their strength. Her legs felt shaky, but this was no time to think of herself. She had to call the airline, find out if there were any survivors. She already knew that there weren’t, but a small part of her always remained infinitely hopeful. Her sisters had always teased her about her optimism and called her Pollyanna.
Well, Polly had just about reached the end of her road , she thought sadly.
Smoothing back her hair, she looked down at her husband. He was sitting there, looking like a broken man. She hardly knew him. She’d lived on memories the last few years but what she saw before her over and over was transforming those memories into nothing more than self-deluding fantasies, something that had never been, had never happened.
“I’m going to call Denise as soon as I hear all the details. She’s—she’s going to want to have someone to talk to.”
Harry nodded, not hearing what Johanna said, only the drone of her voice.
Johanna eased herself out of the room. She turned as she closed the door and saw Harry huddled on the couch. She felt sorry for him, but had no words to offer. The loss she felt choked them off.
She had reached her car when someone called out her name. She turned and saw the props carpenter who had saved her life striding toward her. He moved with the sure, light stride of someone who was master of the world in which he lived. She envied him that, envied him the illusion. There were no masters. She thought of Paul. There were only victims in the end.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Whitney?” Tommy asked when he was beside her.
She forced a smile to her lips. “Yes, you saw to that.”
“No, I meant that I saw that you had fainted. Was it just the shock of almost getting beamed?” When she didn’t answer right away, he looked at her car. “Do you need someone to drive you home?”
She looked back at the sound stage door. “Don’t you have work to do?” She didn’t want to talk about Paul with anyone. His death was too personal, too hurtful. God, she hadn’t felt this awful since her mother had died.
“Always, but I’m
“What do you mean Paul was on that flight? He’s right here.”
Slowly she shook her head. “No, Paul left England this morning.”
“But he can’t leave. He’s the writer. This is his story. He always hangs around the set when we’re filming his stories.”
She wished it was true. She wished that when she turned around, she could see Paul, tall, angular Paul, with his hands in his pockets, shaking the shaggy mane of blond hair and biding his time until he could form the right words with which to ease Harry along in the right direction. But she knew she never would again.
“You fired him.”
Harry rose, agitated, lost. “I didn’t fire him,” he shouted, a child denying an accusation for an action he couldn’t remember. He ripped both hands through his hair, tugging so hard he pulled several strands out, then dragged his hands over his face.
In defeat, he let them drop. They hung at his sides, useless. There was nothing to hold onto anymore. Paul had been his rock, his steadying force. They had fought, he had railed, but there was always Paul to make things safe. Paul was home base.
“And even if I did, I was always firing him.”
“This time, it stuck.”
He dropped down beside her on the couch again. The voice was small, hopeful in the midst of hopelessness. “Maybe he missed the flight.”
She shook her head slowly. “No, he was on it. I feel it.”
Johanna reached out for his shoulder to support herself as she tried to rise, but Harry had shifted away from her, away in his frustrated confusion. She sighed and let her hand fall. Bracing herself, she swung her legs off the couch and tested to see if they had regained their strength. Her legs felt shaky, but this was no time to think of herself. She had to call the airline, find out if there were any survivors. She already knew that there weren’t, but a small part of her always remained infinitely hopeful. Her sisters had always teased her about her optimism and called her Pollyanna.
Well, Polly had just about reached the end of her road , she thought sadly.
Smoothing back her hair, she looked down at her husband. He was sitting there, looking like a broken man. She hardly knew him. She’d lived on memories the last few years but what she saw before her over and over was transforming those memories into nothing more than self-deluding fantasies, something that had never been, had never happened.
“I’m going to call Denise as soon as I hear all the details. She’s—she’s going to want to have someone to talk to.”
Harry nodded, not hearing what Johanna said, only the drone of her voice.
Johanna eased herself out of the room. She turned as she closed the door and saw Harry huddled on the couch. She felt sorry for him, but had no words to offer. The loss she felt choked them off.
She had reached her car when someone called out her name. She turned and saw the props carpenter who had saved her life striding toward her. He moved with the sure, light stride of someone who was master of the world in which he lived. She envied him that, envied him the illusion. There were no masters. She thought of Paul. There were only victims in the end.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Whitney?” Tommy asked when he was beside her.
She forced a smile to her lips. “Yes, you saw to that.”
“No, I meant that I saw that you had fainted. Was it just the shock of almost getting beamed?” When she didn’t answer right away, he looked at her car. “Do you need someone to drive you home?”
She looked back at the sound stage door. “Don’t you have work to do?” She didn’t want to talk about Paul with anyone. His death was too personal, too hurtful. God, she hadn’t felt this awful since her mother had died.
“Always, but I’m
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