Chapter One of Next to Never by Clay Renick

Next to Never

By Clay Renick

Prologue

Imagine a cowboy off a cover of “GQ” standing next to a Native American goddess. That’s the way they looked — rugged and intelligent, and yet both in pain. Maybe it’s just me, and the memory. Maybe it was that night on the Oregon Beach and the fire. I’ll never forget the moment when Trace looked at his wife, and then asked me…

“What am I supposed to do — just watch her starve?”

I took another swallow and tried to think. Marsha, my production assistant was beside me, and didn’t bother to look up.

“Trace…” I struggled for words. “I play an eating disorder expert. But I’m not one.”

Marsha picked up on my thought. “We’re here for some location work in front of the lighthouse.”

He lifted a hand. “I know that.”

Marsha continued. “That’s where the title comes from — ‘Lighthouse of Life’.”

Trace looked closer at me. “So what would you do?” He took a deep breath. “I’ve talked with experts. We’ve been to clinics.”

“You’re not going to let this go will you?” Heather — his wife — looked at Trace, then at me. “It’s always the same issue.” She had brown hair that floated in the wind. Her eyes were dark brown, also.

“We came here to heal.” Trace looked around. “Now, she’s killing herself with food.”

“It’s my body,” she said.

“Just a little less,” he added. “How much is enough?”

I didn’t have any answers. “We do have consultants on the show.” I looked at Marsha again for support. She had her hand in a potato chip bag again, and a mouth full of crumbs.

“So why play the part if you don’t understand the dynamic?” Trace looked across the fire again. I felt vulnerable.

“Because it‘s an act.”

Marsha started to talk with food in her mouth. “What about the last twenty years? Fans love you.”

“What about the failed relationships?”

The anger was starting to surface again. I didn’t see Heather step back from the fire and come toward me. My thoughts were still tangled as she took my arm and led me toward the water. The original plan included a week on location there. Trace and Heather lived at a ranch that overlooked the lighthouse. They had a campfire on the beach, and the production crew was due to arrive any minute. Yet, I couldn’t keep my eyes off both since we got there.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Heather told me. “We go through this every day.”

“You really have a disorder?”

“No, an immune problem. I ran track in college but now can’t walk up a flight of stairs.”

“What caused it?”

“Don’t know. We’ve been all over the country.”

I stopped with a question mark in my eyes. “Doctors can’t help?”

“Either they can’t or don’t care.”

I looked closer at her. “What do they say?”

“Always the same — your symptoms are atypical.”

The waves dropped in a line beyond the mist. “So you’re in pain.”

“Starts in the joints and then radiates.”

“Any link or cause?”

“Don’t know.” Her head dropped in a type of gesture. “I’m from New Mexico. We met in college and just started our life together but I feel like my life is over.”

“What is he talking about with the eating disorder?”

“You have to be careful with diet. Some foods work better with this problem.”

She continued to hold my arm as we walked. Heather was about 5 foot 2 and one hundred pounds with an olive complexion and features that were smooth. She wore jeans and a soft leather coat. Her walk and words came out in a type of grace. It caught me off guard.

“Tell me about yourself?” she added.

“What’s to say?”

She smiled. I was old enough to be her mother. Yet she seemed older, with teeth that were white and straight, an effortless smile and the ease of movement that comes with self-acceptance. “How you got from wherever — to here.”

“A lot of pain.”

She squeezed my arm. We continued down the beach.

“I went to college in Southern California and married early. A job took us to L.A. This sounds boring already.”

“Not at all.”

“Got a start as a production assistant on a soap, and that led to a role. The rest is history.”
She squeezed my arm again. “With a lot left out.”

“My husband ran off with an actress from the show. I rebounded with another loser from the same episode. One mistake just led to another and...”

“You look much younger.” Her smile helped to ease the tension within.

“That’s the only benefit. I started kickboxing. Helps to vent.”

“And the soap?” Her eyes brightened.

“It was a job. I needed money.”

“What’s it like to act?”

I stopped. “Like high school — except you never graduate.”

She smiled again with eyes that studied my features. “But look at you: blonde hair, blue eyes and the build of a gymnast. The picture of success.”

“No.” I looked around. “It’s not real — like…”

“This?” her smile continued. “There’s more to life than…”

“How can you say that?” I looked in her eyes. They seemed to sparkle in the night with the lighthouse turning around us.

“If this is all there is… the right house, in the right place, with people who finally have it all made, then…”

Trace came from behind, putting an arm around her, his scent masked by the leather jacket he wore.

“You didn’t finish.”

Heather looked around Trace and took a deep breath. “If this is all there is to life, then we all have a problem.”

###

Time seemed to stop on that beach: the three of us there with the scent of mountains, the sound of waves, the lighthouse and mist. The word “real” came to mind. Nature. In-your-face reality. So different from the world of soap operas.

“I want this,” I said aloud.

It caught Trace and Heather off guard.

“What?”

“This life. This beach. The missing — whatever.”

Heather stepped closer. “You’re not alone. Haven Light is one of the most photographed sites on the coast.”

Trace took a deep breath, his blond hair stiff in the wind, jaw muscles flexing. I watched the movement of his eyes as headlights passed from the road and continued toward us.

“Several vans,” I said. “Must be the location crew.”

“What now?” Heather squeezed my arm. “I’ve never seen a soap opera in action.”

“Well,” I started forward out of instinct, remembering the effort and energy that went into production. “They’ll fill the bed and breakfast up on the highway. Bart, our assistant director will get out, shouting about the lack of room and the pressure of setting up.”

“And then?” Heather wanted more information.

“Late nights, early wake ups and stress over — you name it.”

She looked at Trace. “Then stay with us. We’ve got more room than we could ever use.”

“No…”

“Really.” His voice was deep, the response firm. He pointed at the hill on the other side of the highway. Light came from some living room windows. “You’ll be closer than anyone else.”

“But we start early.”

Heather squeezed my arm again. “I don’t sleep much, anyway and have always wondered about the people behind soap operas.”

I breathed deep in the clear air and paused. It was odd to just meet someone — and yet — feel at ease.

###

Their home was a two story log cabin with front windows that extended across the room on both sides, from floor to ceiling. Trace saw my eyes widen as we walked up from the car.

“Big risk in a storm, but the view is worth it.”

The front door opened into a living room with a fireplace under the mantle and a fire burning low. One wall was rock with wall hangings that looked Native American. The carpet was an eagle design laid on top of hardwood floors. Trophy racks hung from the wall on exposed beams. The trophies were deer or elk. The room smelled of pine.

I set my bags down and looked back as Trace went back to the car and returned with Heather in his arms.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “One walk on the beach and there’s no energy left.”

Trace set her down on an oversized couch, his eyes steady in the firelight. “Want to go back to Mayo?”

“No.“ Her words were quick. “You’ve got enough problems.”

“I’m worried,” he told her.

“Me, to.”

“Maybe another kind of doctor.”

“We’ve been to dozens.” Her eyes looked weak.

“What about the supplements?”

“What good are they?”

I felt odd — as if included in an intimate moment — and yet, helpless. Heather noticed me, and smiled.

“I hate all the attention. Please make yourself at home.”

I couldn’t move. How odd for someone used to counter-punches and confrontation. “Can you tell me about this—problem?”

Trace got up and left the room.

“He’s sick of it. I really feel for him. We’ve got enough trouble with his father’s business. And now, my health.”

I sat down on the floor in front of her. The fire felt warm on my back.

Heather smiled, her eyes on mine. “First tell me about your work.”

“Why? It’s…unreal.”

“The actors? Crew? Writers?”

“Ever been in a play at school?”

“No.”

“Relationships that weren’t real?”

She laughed. “Plenty.”

“Then put them together with costumes, deadlines and storylines that could never happen.”

“You really don’t like your work.”

“I want to know more about you and Trace and…” I looked around. “This life here on a hill, overlooking the lighthouse.”

A buzz went off in my coat pocket. I reached down and pulled out my cell. Bart’s number appeared on the screen.

“Yeah.”

“WHERE ARE YOU?” The voice was tense.

“With friends.”

“HOW NICE. Did you forget the reason behind this VA-CA-TION?”

“Can you talk without being snide?”

“We’ve got a 5:00 a.m. start.”

“Okay.” I covered the phone and looked over at Heather. “My boss. First Assistant Director, Mr. Anal, himself.”

“Be there.”

I clicked the cell phone shut. “What a pleasure to work with.”

Heather wrinkled her eyebrows. I started to put the cell back in my pocket, as it vibrated again. The word “Marsha” appeared on the screen.

“Yeah?”

“SOME FRIEND.”

“What’s your problem?”

“WHY’D YOU LEAVE ME WITH THIS BUNCH OF FOOLS?”

I held the phone out at arm’s length. “You weren’t around. Heather and Trace invited me to their home.”

“Do you have the script for tomorrow?”

I looked at my bag and tried to think. Marsha started to talk again. There was an edge in her voice. “Don’t blame me after you look at it.”

I flipped the phone shut.

“Sorry if we caused some friction,” Heather whispered.

“No. The tension was there long before.”

She leaned back against the couch. “Ever get tired of the drama?”

“All the time.”

“So what‘s the storyline?”

My eyes started to burn. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’m talking too much.”

“No, I just can’t think.”

“You’re tired.” She tried to sit up. “I’ll get Trace to show you around.”

“What about you?”

She leaned back again, her breath shallow and almost labored. “I’ll pay for all this tomorrow.” She paused. “Always happens after anything physical.”

Her eyelids began to droop. The moment caught me off guard with an understanding just beyond that tired feeling in my own eyes. Here I was in a job that was an “act,“ while these people were caught in real drama without a script.

The fire crackled behind me. Trace was at the mantle. “It’s always the same. No answers and a search.”

“Wish I could — help.”

“I put your things in the bedroom upstairs. Heather often sleeps on the couch.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Not at all.” He smiled. “She likes you.”

“What about tomorrow?” I looked around. “I’ve got to be up early.”

“Me, too. We’ll get you there on time.”

I wanted to say something as if a word or two could help. Maybe rewrite the script for them. But you can’t. And yet, I wanted that. Hit delete. Rework the scene. Go on with something new.

The best I could do was: “Sure nice of you to open your home.”

###

Big bed. Thick blankets. Strong wind outside the window. My head hit the pillow and I sank into darkness. It was solid sleep—not the nervous feeling you get from a condo near the Interstate. My mind continued to roll through the factors—even as I floated through rapid-eye-movements. Oregon. Haven Light. Location. Heather, Trace. Somehow it all related. Somehow our lives would intersect in a future that no one expected. And yet, I wondered and struggled to understand. That’s my weakness.

Bart says I “feel” with my “thinking.” But then you can’t believe anyone who takes soap operas seriously.

“You’re not a typical woman,” Bart tells me. It’s not meant to be sexist but I take it that way.

“Your point?”

“Kick-box?” He’ll pause as if waiting for someone to laugh.

“Big Mama had a word for people like you.”

“Who was that?”

“My mother.”

“Why Big?”

“Drove an 18-wheeler at half my size, but would knock you out with one punch.”

That doesn’t go over well. But then, his comments always have some truth to them. I just can’t let my guard down and do the feminine thing. Not after my past.

All this is going through my head in the middle of the night. That leads to the same dream where I’m watching myself run from someone who is going to hurt me. At the same time, I‘m the one in the chase. Figure that out.

A psychologist would explain it as an avoidance of relationships. True. Suspicion of romance. Right again. Maybe I’ve seen too many people hurt. Maybe I really have issues. But that’s okay. I’m not looking for answers at this point. Just focus. That’s hard to do when you work in a soap opera.

My phone went off at 4:00 a.m. It was Bart.

“I need you here in thirty minutes.”

“You and I could never be married,” I mumbled.

“We’ve got thirty hours of shooting and twenty for rehearsal.”

“Does it ever occur to you that other people have their own way to wake up?”

“You’re in a business. And the problem is time.”

###

I’m standing in the shower with the water on my back. It’s hot with steam that floats in a cloud around me. The day extends in my mind like a movie. I can see it all happen before I get there.

Trace and Heather will be at the kitchen table when I walk through with a script. She’ll have a cup of coffee and blue jean jacket with a sweatshirt. Her eyes will smile and then move up to my hair that’s still wet from the shower.

“Early day?” she’ll ask.

“They all are.”

“Do you have time for coffee?” She’ll point at a cup with steam rising from it. I’ll reach for the cup as she continues with questions. “ Need a ride? I’ll start breakfast if you like.”

“They’ll have something for us.” I’ll take a sip, look down at the script and try to internalize my lines. My jogging suit will feel thin, and questions will start about the weather.

We’ll get in their truck and start down the hill, him quiet at the wheel, her smiling as she looks back from the front seat and me mumbling with the script on my lap.

“Give her time,“ I’ll whisper. “We’re all in a crisis.”

Heather will raise an eyebrow. “Sounds familiar.”

“Love finds a way,” I’ll add from the script. “Just give her space.”

Trace will look over at his wife and downshift.

That will lead to questions about production. I’ll sit back and feel smug.

“Each scene is about six or seven minutes,“ I’ll explain. “They work toward a ‘cliffhanger’ every week to keep the tempo and suspense.”

“And each show?” Heather wonders.

“A combination of scenes.”

She nods. “So you’ve got different groups involved in the over-all plot.”

“Got it.”

“Who keeps it all focused?”

“The episode writer.” She’ll wonder in silence at that one. “They work for the director. There’s also dialogue writers for each scene and a script coach on the set.”

“All those people are here?” Trace looks at me in the rear view mirror and turns into the lighthouse parking lot.

“No, Bart, will take over as Director, and Trudy the Script Coach will take over changes if there are any.”

Heather will look at the crowd up ahead and then back at me. “Your part?”

I’ll take the last sip of coffee and set the cup down. “Just part of the family.”

The lighting crew will set up in front of the lighthouse. Trace and Heather walk beside me across the parking lot. I scan the script as I talk.

“The one in the middle with the big mouth is Bart. He’s got an overgrown mustache, and likes to shout. Trudy should be following him with a worried look on her face. She’s overweight and wears tight pants.”

Trace will nod. “Who’s the big guy?”

“His name’s Floyd, but plays a character named Jason.”

“Looks like a football player.”

“Not at all.” Floyd will have a tux and will button his coat. “He likes flower arranging.”

Heather puts a hand on my arm as if to ask another question. “A woman in a wedding dress?”

I’ll look up. “Monica and—it’s too early in the morning for people like her.”

She’ll walk with heavy steps and sneer at me. “So nice of you to join us.”

I’ll hold out the script. “Can someone restrain her? I’m not in the mood for any crap.”

Monica’s expression will twist as she looks at Trace, Heather and then me. “We didn’t get to sleep in the big house. WE HAD TO SHARE ROOMS UP THE HIGHWAY.”

I’ll slide past and catch Trudy by the arm. “Someone’s about to lose some teeth...”

Trudy turns. “Children, children.”

Heather will help me through the crowd. I’ll feel her whisper in my ear. “Do you always start your workday this way?”

I’ll feel the blood pound from within and keep walking. Wardrobe will be in a trailer off to the side. I’ll climb the steps and turn. “Sorry for the embarrassment. You’re welcome to watch the process.”

She’ll nod, eyes steady. “You’re part of this family?”

“You haven’t seen anything.”

The first scene will be in front of the lighthouse opening. I’ll have on a business suit and follow behind Floyd and Monica as they stumble in a type of run. Bart’s in chair behind one of the three cameras and Trudy will stand beside him. I’ll line up and catch Heather and Trace at the edge of the crowd. They watch. The lights are bright. Marsha, my only friend on the set, will be in front of the camera with the chalkboard indicating the scene number. Bart will get out of his chair.

“We’ve just gone from the wedding where Monica walked out and Jason runs to stop her. Now, Doctor Storm attempts to give counsel.”

(That’s my part, Doctor Storm.)

He‘ll sit back down. Marsha will hold up the chalkboard. “Scene one, take one.”

Monica runs for the steps. Jason follows. Then I start after them. “Give her time,” I shout. “We’re all in a crisis.”

“CUT.”

I look back at Bart.

“Lame. You can do better than that.”

Marsha gets back in front of the camera. Monica breathes deeply, and looks at me as she walks back. Jason adjusts his coat and gets into position.

“Scene One,” Marsha holds up the chalkboard. “Take two.”

Both start forward. I follow. “GIVE HER TIME,” I shout. “We’re all in a CRISIS.”
“Cut.”

Monica swears. Jason turns as Trudy looks over at me. “You’re an educated woman, Doctor Storm.”

“So?”

“We need emotions that are contained and yet — focused.”

Bart holds up a hand. “Just make it real — okay.”

Monica and Jason get back into position. Marsha moves in front of the camera again. “Scene One, take three.”

Both run for the lighthouse. I sprint and overtake Jason. My hand grabs his coat. He reaches back to release the grip and stumbles. I try to check the movement but follow too close as he falls. Both of us roll. I end up on top.

“Give her time,” I say in a gasp. “We’re all in a crisis.”

“That’s a take,” Bart starts to laugh.

“But it’s off the script,” Trudy again.

Jason rolls over. “I’m getting tired of being thrown around. No one said anything in my contract about…”
I grab him under the arms to help. “You whine too much. It was an accident.”

Jason looks over at Bart. “I don’t hit women. But this is really going too far.”

Bart grabs his mustache in a thoughtful gesture. “We’ve got to find a way to add that into the storyline, Trudy. We can’t let these opportunities get by.”

###

Rain moved in as I stepped out of the shower. You could hear it in a pattern on the roof. The curtains were open as the clouds gathered on the horizon through the window. I walked into the room and pulled on a robe. My phone went off. Bart again.

“Yeah.”

“Rain delay. Go back to bed. We’ll work late for the catch up.”

“Whatever.” I climbed into a running suit and started to pull a comb through my hair.

The house was quiet and yet warm. Flames still crackled in the fireplace. You could see the shadows as I walked down the stairs. My running suit was lightweight and the weather outside blowing rain.

Heather was on the couch with her eyes on Trace. He leaned over, fingers lightly pulling the hair from her eyes. Neither noticed me.

“I loved you from that first day with the horses.” Her words were almost a whisper.

His eyes struggled to focus.” Why are you talking like this?”

I hesitated on the steps. Here I was, Dawn Austin, soap opera actress — in their home as a guest. And they were caught in something real. I froze on the steps, afraid to move and yet wanting to help.
Heather’s expression relaxed. “Remember those long afternoons in New Mexico? We’d just sit there and watch the sunset on the mountains.”

“There will be more.”

“All we had was time together.”

“You act like it’s over.”

She took a deep breath. An Indian blanket pulled up to the chin. “Just do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Get married again.”

“Why are you talking like this?” His fingers were feather-like on her face.

“Make it good woman. You deserve that.”

“You’re making me uneasy with this.”

She turned to the window, her eyes liquid. “I tried so hard.”

“It’s not over…. Look, I’ll call the doctor.”

“I dreamed about you, Trace.” She turned to him again. “We were together again.”

He put his head down. “You’ve got to stop.”

“Everything was okay in that dream. There was no pain. No tired feeling. We were in the mountains again with the horses.”

“Please stop.”

“Just hold me.”

He leaned over, shoulders shaking, then still. He pulled back. “God, no… Please. This can’t happen.”

I pulled my hand to my face. “What?”

He leaned back, eyes shut, teeth clinched. “Dawn, call 911.” An animal cry came from the back of his throat. Heather had her head on the pillow — her eyes were unmoving.

I ran down the steps and lifted the phone. My fingers shook on the keys.

The moment stretched into a series of images: Trace, struggling with CPR, a siren in the distance, flashing lights — and the ambulance in the driveway.

Chapter One

A seagull floated over a house near Haven Light and looked down. An ambulance hesitated in the driveway, lights rotating on the cab with a red haze that spun across the yard. The sea gull shook its head and looked through the rain at a lady next to the ambulance. She had blonde hair dripping against her face, a running suit now wet, and chest rising and falling with each breath. The woman’s hands covered her mouth, eyes wrinkled. She stood in the downpour as if waiting and then got in. The ambulance pulled away. A gap opened between them and extended. The seagull drifted for the coast — and the moment swung in time.

###

Two streams fell from the upper reaches of the Coastal Range in Oregon and joined at the bottom of a hill. Jack Canton watched them from below as he sat with his feet crossed on a table and a fly rod in his hands. An umbrella stood in the center of the table caching the rain that fell on all sides. Jack’s hands were thick with calluses —uncommon for a pastor. His face looked hard and unshaved, eyes steady.

A bird watched from a post off to the side. Jack let his eyes slide over and rest on the bird. It shook the water off in a shudder.

“You’re back,” he whispered. “Thought you left for the season.”

The bird turned his head to the side and rubbed his beak across the stump. Then he focused on Jack and hopped closer. He studied Jack as if to take in the details: old jeans, running shoes, blue v-neck sweater with a long sleeve university shirt underneath.

Jack looked back: the bird was small with feathers that were black and tipped in bright yellow— like the plumage seen in a jungle.

“We’re alike, you and I,” Jack continued. “Out of place, and unaware.”

A cell phone began to ring on the table. Jack turned his eyes to it and back to the bird. “Should I answer?”

No response from the bird.

“Probably some request.”
The phone continued to ring. Rain tapped on the umbrella overhead. Jack leaned over with a sigh.

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t we casual today.”

“Hey Bill. First day of the new life.”

“Enjoy it,” Bill answered. “Some of us don‘t get to retire.”

Jack looked down at the fly rod. “All that what-if thinking didn’t help.”

“Good — cause it can wait.”

“What you got?”

“Code blue. Young woman. Near death.”

Jack breathed deep. “Where’s Hank?”

“Conference.”

“What about you?”

“Jo Jo’s birthday. Lois made me promise. No work today.”

Jack sat up. “What about all that talk of the sunsets and fishing?”

“Where? Who?”

“For me. You said my number was no longer in the Rolodex.” Jack lifted a hand out to the bird, as if asking for help.

“But there’s no one else.” Bill paused. “One time. That’s all. I’ll delete your number after this. I promise.”

Jack took a deep breath and looked down, his black hair now gray. “But I don’t have it anymore. You know that.”

“Have what?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “The want-to, or what ever you call it.”

Bill’s voice rose. “I’m not asking anything long term. This is crisis work. You know that after thirty years as a hospital chaplain.”

Jack set the fly rod down and took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the cedar wood buildings on a bluff over the river. The ribbon of water snaked below in a canyon of blue current.

Five years, Jack thought. All by hand. The stuff of dreams. Retire and fish. Write the novel. Get back to basics.

“Still there?” Bill’s voice had an edge.

“Yeah,” Jack took another deep breath and got up. The bird fluttered off. “But I’m out of answers after that struggle with Arlynn.”

“You don’t need advice. Just listen. You do that well.”

“Whatever.”
“Fish tomorrow.”

“Okay…. But something tells me it won’t happen that way.”

Bill paused again. “Life can take us unexpected places, Jack.”

“Don’t I know that .…”

###

The hospital was crowded when Jack walked in. He wore dark pants and a coat with a white collar that was stiff and circle-like. It identified him as a pastor. Several nurses looked up when he passed their stations.

“Can’t stay away one day…”

“Bill called.” He stopped and looked over the counter. “Said we’ve got a couple who…”

The nurse pointed up the hall. “She‘s still in O.R. They’re in the recovery waiting room.”

Jack smiled and started off; his movements straight, expression firm. He paused at the door. Then he opened it and started in.

A young man sat on the couch with hands covering his face. A woman with blonde hair was next to him, hair wet, eyes glassy and expression fixed. Jack took in the scene as if to gather details, then looked back at the woman.

Nice features, he thought. But couldn’t be the mother.

The other chairs were empty.

He moved closer to the man and extended his hand. “Jack Canton, I’m one of the chaplains here.”

The younger man took his hand and responded with a weak grip. Jack nodded at the woman and felt his eyes adjust.

“Just heard. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Trace coughed and started to sob as if to correct himself. “No… it’s not okay.”

Jack put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We‘re all praying.”

“Just tell me why.” Trace looked up with pain in his eyes. “That’s what I want to know.”

Jack remained next to the man with a hand on his shoulder. “Sure you do.”

Dawn pointed at the door. “Everything looked okay this morning… She was talking one minute and then…”

Jack looked from one to the other. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Trace coughed again and covered his eyes as his body shook. “I took her all over the country. One doctor to another.”

“What did they say?”

“No answers.”

“And you deserve to know.”

Jack sat next to the man, but his eyes drifted to the woman. She was watching him without comment.

“That’s it?” Her voice had an edge.

“Till we know more.” What’s her problem? Jack wondered.

“Can’t you find out anything?” Dawn pointed at the door. “You know all these people.”

“Sure… I’ll go in a minute. Are you the mother?”

“No.”

“Family member?”

“No.”

“Friend?”

Trace looked over. “We met her last night.” He looked over at Jack. “This is Dawn Austin. She’s with the group at Haven Light.”
“What group?”

Trace paused, as if in thought. “Soap opera. They’re on location.”

“Are you serious?” Jack looked out the window. Wonder if the trout are still biting? He thought. It’s a perfect day to try out those new flies.

Dawn took a deep breath. She looked up. Jack’s eyes were fixed on her. Why the stare? She thought. I don’t need more drama.

“Is that a problem?” she asked.

Jack blinked as if startled from a daydream. “What are you talking about?”

“Soap operas.”

“No, I was thinking about something else.”

“Aren’t you going to offer a prayer or something?”

“Sure.”

She continued to look at him without expression.

Nice eyes, Jack thought. But focus on the problem, boss.

He reached out to take their hands. “Let’s go to the Father in prayer.”

Trace took his hand with a shaky grip. Dawn reached over and put her hand in his also.

Jack closed his eyes and began to pray. “Heavenly Father, we come to you with a huge need. You know the circumstance. Trace’s wife struggles even this minute. Please take over and give the doctors wisdom. You’re the great physician, and can heal anyone and anything. It’s all in your power. We praise you ahead of time, knowing that you’re able to do so much more than we ever imagined. With that we leave it in your hands and will give you all the thanks and praise. In Jesus’ Name we pray. Amen.”

Dawn released the grip, letting her eyes remain on Jack. His hands are bigger than anyone I’ve ever met, she thought. And powerful.

Jack nodded and got up. “I’ll check with the nurses and be right back.”

Dawn watched him walk. Broad shoulders, she thought. Solid. Walks like a cowboy.

The hallway was empty but several nurses were at the desk, charts open and pens in their hand. They smiled at the sight of Jack.

“What have we got?” He asked one. “The woman in O.R.?”

“Don’t know,” the woman responded. “She’s stable now but they’re calling Life Flight out of Portland.”
“Sounds serious.”

The nurse nodded. Jack smiled back and started off. Dawn was coming out of the door when he approached. He slowed to face her.

Slim legs, he thought. But then, most actors stay in shape.

Dawn stopped close to him, finger pointing back at the door. “I came here to help.”

“Me, too.” Her eyes are dark blue, he thought. Don’t see that often. White teeth. Keep it professional, Jack.

“But I’m in the way here.” Dawn let her shoulders drop as if to emphasize the point.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“How is she?”

“Stable, but needs a Medivac to Portland.”

Do I hug the woman or walk away, he told himself. He reached out and touched her on the arm. “It was nice of you to be here.”

She reached up and covered her eyes. Jack reached out in reflex and wrapped his arms around her. Sobs shook her body.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “This is crazy. I live in drama and fall apart in something like this.”

“It’s real,” he said. Watch your thoughts, Jack. She’s hurting.

Sure, another voice whispered from within him. But so are you.

Jack stepped back to pull a handkerchief from his back pocket. Dawn took it as the door opened and Trace looked out.

“Any word?”

“Stable at present,” Jack told him. “But we’re looking at a flight out to Portland.”

Trace took a deep breath and leaned against the doorframe.

Jack reached out and took him by the arm. “They’re more equipped there. You’ll be in good hands.”

Trace nodded. “Thanks.”

Dawn handed the handkerchief back. “Sorry I messed it up.”

“No problem.”

Her eyes shifted to his. Masculine, deep blue, but wrinkled. Must spend a lot of time outside. “Well, guess I’ll be going.”

Jack paused. “Nice of you to come.”

“Thanks…” Her eyes looked from one to another.

A nurse came from behind and stopped with her hand covering her mouth. “You’re — Dawn Austin.”

The woman softened. “Yes I am.”

“I love your show.”

“Thank you very much.”

Dawn stood there in the hall, eyes on Jack — one breath falling as another rose.

You’re beautiful, he thought. But I’m here to help a family in a crisis.

“I’ve got to go,” Dawn whispered again. “But, please let me know what happens. I’ll be out at Haven Light.”

She started up the hall and waved at Trace.

“Thanks for all your help.”