Seasoned Hearts

By J.S. Marlo

Explosion, arson, and murder play an integral and entertaining role in Actor Blythe Huxley's life, but when his wife is shot, the tragedy becomes real and the decisions heartbreaking.

Love, sacrifice, and duty aren't empty words that Riley Kendrick writes in her television scripts. They are the threads weaving her life together—a life marked by the loss of her husband in the line of duty, the hardship of raising two children alone, and the strength to move on.

As Riley offers a friendly ear to the actor's difficulties, an arsonist strikes close to home, casting a shadow on her husband's death and forcing her to revisit her past. Meanwhile, another bullet flies in proximity of the television studio, entangling her life with Blythe's tragedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228620792

J.S. Marlo

JS lives in Alberta with her hubby, and when she's not visiting her children and little granddaughter, she's working on her next novel under the northern lights.

Book preview

Seasoned Hearts

Love & Sacrifice, 1

J. S. Marlo

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-2079-2

Kindle 978-0-2286-2080-8

PDF 978-0-2286-2081-5

Print ISBNs

BWL Print 978-0-2286-2078-5

LSI Print 978-0-2286-2083-9

Amazon Print 978-0-2286-2082-2

Copyright 2022 by Marlene Garand

Cover art by Christine’s Creations

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Acknowledgment

I wouldn’t have reimagined, rescripted, and rewritten this story, and made all these wonderful and incredible changes, without the support of an amazing lady. Thank you so much, Mahrie, for brainstorming with me, for the long chats, for the multiple messages, and for believing in me. You are an inspiration. Many hugs!

Chapter One

During her flight to Winnipeg, Riley Kendrick struck a conversation with the retired school librarian seated next to her.

Do you miss working at the school? It had been two years since Riley quit her job at the local library to pursue her passion for scriptwriting, but she still missed the smell of the books and the ruffling sound of the pages wafting through the peaceful silence.

I miss reading to the kids, dear, but when I started having problems seeing the words, I knew it was time for me to retire. The soft-spoken woman pushed thick glasses up the bridge of her nose. Nowadays, I’m ashamed to say I spend most of my evenings in front of the television.

"May I ask if you watch Wild Rescue?" The Canadian television show, which Riley enjoyed watching every Monday night, fictionalized the lives and tribulations of a search and rescue team.

The woman nodded, loosening silver strands of hair from the bun tucked behind her head. I never miss an episode. Roch and Luke are such heartthrobs.

Strong and quiet, Roch embodied the perfect team leader in charge of the dangerous rescue missions. His colleague, and best friend Luke, personified the most eligible bachelor on the show. Both actors scored high on the attractiveness scale, but neither turned Riley’s head. Still, she liked finding out what other women thought. Which rescuer do you prefer?

Luke. A sigh accentuated the woman’s dreamy expression. His British accent is charming, and my heart flutters every time he flashes those dimples. I wish he’d settle down instead of getting a new girlfriend every episode.

If online fansites were to be believed, some women would kill to win Luke’s long-lasting affection.

What about Carson? The potential script that Riley had submitted to the producer of Wild Rescue revolved around Carson’s character, the most complex of the three current male rescuers.

Carson? A grimace twisted the woman’s wrinkled face. He’s too old and brash.

Really? The notion that a woman in her early seventies found a man in his mid-forties too old amused Riley. I take it you don’t like him?

No, and I don’t like the dubious side-glances he gives Vivian when she’s not looking at him. Besides, it’s his fault her husband died in the avalanche.

In the pilot episode, Carson attempted to save Vivian’s husband but failed. Following his death, the newly widowed woman took his place as the fourth member of the rescue team. From then on, sweet and compassionate Vivian had clashed with Carson, the cold and pragmatic technical expert. The show never explained Carson’s gruff attitude toward Vivian, but Riley suspected guilt or love—or a combination of both.

Something grazed Riley’s elbow, tearing her attention away from the conversation.

A flight attendant stood in the aisle beside a cart, looking at Riley. Would you like something to drink?

A black coffee, please. Riley lowered her tray table.

The flight attendant placed a paper cup on the tray along with a napkin. Careful, it’s hot.

Sudden turbulence shook the plane, spilling the coffee.

* * *

Behind the wheel of his car, Blythe Huxley negotiated the shortest route between the hospital and the television studio, avoiding most of the potholes transformed into birdbaths by an overnight downpour.

His wife had always loved spring, from the birds singing in budding trees to the sickly grass she nursed back to life after months of winter hibernation. The month of May was supposed to be the symbol of new beginnings and new life. Not death.

Yellow construction signs and orange cones loomed ahead. The vehicles in the next lane over merged into his, slowing the traffic to a crawl.

Unimpressed by the timing, Blythe glanced at the clock on the dashboard and sighed. Starting tomorrow, and until these road repairs were finished, he needed to visit his wife half an hour earlier than he routinely did.

His slow morning commute to work ended underneath Arctica Production Studio in a private parking garage. Being one of the lead actors on Arctica’s most popular television show had its advantages, like having a reserved parking space, but it wouldn’t save him from Martin’s wrath.

As executive producer and director of Wild Rescue, W.H. Martin controlled every aspect of the weekly series. As such, he expected everyone on the payroll, from actors to copyboys, to obey his every whim and be either on time, or early.

According to the clock on his dashboard, Blythe was already eleven minutes late for Martin’s daily morning briefing. He rode the elevator to the fifth floor instead of taking the stairs. A few more minutes later, he eased into the conference room at the end of the corridor.

Hux, Martin bellowed from the front of the large rectangular table. Attendance wasn’t optional.

Sorry. Blythe walked around the table to sit next to his co-star Nick Jensen. A folder, his name printed on it, lay on the table. He flipped through it, catching glimpses of the scenes scheduled to be filmed later that day.

Martin waited for you. Nick’s fake British accent rolled off his tongue. He’s annoyed big time.

Isn’t he always? The producer didn’t care about anyone else’s problems and didn’t accept any excuses, so Blythe hadn’t bothered offering any.

The stuntmen are going on strike tomorrow. The edge to Martin’s voice conveyed his aggravation. We can forget blowing up the boat and shooting the rescue until the issue is resolved.

The news didn’t surprise Blythe. In the last few months, the stuntmen had filed many safety complaints with the studio. It was only a matter of time before they grew tired of being ignored.

We’ll start shooting the indoor scenes for the next episode. The revised schedule and the script are inside your folders. The producer held up a red folder. If you have any problems with the dialogue or content, talk to Andy.

Blythe looked around the table for Andy Cormack, the senior writer of the series. Given the choice, he or any of his colleagues would rather speak with Andy than Martin, but the senior writer was absent from the briefing.

"I’m sure you all remember the Wild Script Contest, in which anyone could submit a script of the show for consideration. Martin had sponsored the contest, but if the rumors circulating around the studio held any truth, not all writers had been on board with the idea. We got a decent one from a Riley Kendrick. Since the writer shows potential, I invited him to the studio to discuss a possible contract. He’s arriving this morning from Sparrowsnest on flight..."

Sparrowsnest? The name rang a distant bell in Blythe’s mind. It sounded like the name of the small Southern Alberta town where he and Claire stopped for lunch during their tenth-anniversary trip across Canada.

The producer leafed through his notes. Flight 2168. The plane lands in thirty-five minutes. Hux, that should give you enough time to get to the airport.

Me? The contract Blythe signed never mentioned playing chauffeur for some aspiring writer. He needed those few hours to study his lines.

The glare in Martin’s eyes beamed directly at him. I believe your car engine is still warm.

* * *

Inside the airport, a fast and steady flow of passengers crossed the security gate into the arrival terminal.

Standing with his back to a wall between a drinking water fountain and a money exchange booth, Blythe reviewed the flight numbers displayed on the arrival board hanging from the ceiling. Flight 2168 landed ten minutes early.

He assumed the writer was aware that someone from the show would pick him up, but Blythe worried that Kendrick might not see him or recognize him.

An orange light flashed over the second-closest carousel, and its conveyor belt began turning. Even if the writer didn’t check luggage, he was still bound to exit this way.

Passengers hurried to retrieve their luggage. As they left the terminal, some of them looked in Blythe’s general direction, but none approached him.

The crowd dwindled to a handful of people, among them a woman with shoulder-length auburn hair. A laptop bag slung over her right shoulder, she marched toward him pulling a bright fuchsia suitcase. If she sought an autograph, she would be disappointed. Outside the studio, he valued his privacy and didn’t interact with fans.

The woman stopped in front of him. A large brownish stain smeared her light blue blouse. Blythe Huxley?

The inquiry stumped him. In her place, Blythe would have entered the closest restroom and changed shirt, not engaged a stranger in conversation. If you need anything, I suggest inquiring at the information booth near the pivoting doors. With a tilt of his head, he indicated the doors.

Shamrock-green eyes scrutinized him. I thought you might be here on behalf of Mr. Martin. My mistake.

She walked away, but the mention of Martin’s name prompted Blythe to do a double take. Wait. Are you Riley Kendrick?

Stopped in her tracks, she turned around. Yes, I am. Were you expecting someone else?

Blythe had pictured a cocky writer like Paul Winchester or a seasoned gentleman like Andy Cormack, not a lovely woman. To say he missed his chance to make a good first impression was the understatement of the year. I was given the wrong description. And gender. I’m sorry.

He gestured for her suitcase and was pleased when she relinquished it into his care.

No apologies necessary. As she walked by his side toward the exit, she adjusted the strap over her shoulder. To be honest, I wasn’t certain you were waiting for me, but I didn’t see anyone else from the show. Did you tick someone off to draw airport duty?

Intimidating was an adjective often used to describe him. As a result, few dared speak their minds in his presence. Riley’s candor was refreshing.

Yes. Martin. He led her into the parking lot and reached inside the pocket of his jacket for his car keys. Our ruthless producer values punctuality.

I see. The ghost of a smile hovered on her lips. Any words of wisdom before I meet him? Aside from setting my alarm clock?

Over the years, Martin hadn’t hired many female writers, and the few who were talented enough to get a contract quit within weeks. Riley’s tenacity had better match her sense of humor if she wanted to impress the producer.

It looks like coffee didn’t agree with you this morning. Blythe stopped by his car and popped the trunk with his remote. Would you like to stop by your hotel and change before meeting Martin?

That would be much appreciated. She swept her left hand over the stain. I would rather not give Martin the wrong impression by wearing my entire cup of coffee.

A delicate wedding band adorned her ring finger. At the other end of her flight path, some lucky fellow awaited her return—like Claire used to wait for him after a grueling day at the studio.

Silently cursing fate for his loss, Blythe heaved the suitcase into the trunk.

* * *

In her hotel room, Riley gave her chest a quick sponge bath. The cold water soothed her reddened skin.

Her padded bra had absorbed most of the hot liquid, saving her from sustaining serious burns. I’ve suffered worse sunburns in the past. I will be fine.

Her suitcase was open on the king-sized bed. Hoping to make a favorable impression, she picked out a pair of black slacks and a teal sweater. The top was a gift from her daughter. She looked forward to calling her children tonight and telling them everything about her eventful trip.

Ready to face the producer, Riley left her room and took the elevator down.

A gentleman in his golden years manned the front desk. The nametag pinned to his crisp burgundy jacket identified him as Oscar - Manager on Duty.

Once he finished helping the young couple in front of her, Riley approached him. I’d like to call a taxi, please.

I’d be happy to, Mrs. Kendrick, but I believe Mr. Huxley is waiting for you. With a long, crooked finger, Oscar pointed toward the lobby where small round tables and brown leather chairs circled an oversized aquarium housing exotic fish.

Seated in an overstuffed chair, the blond actor read the newspaper. He looked over the page and nodded. Ready?

Both flattered and bewildered that he stayed on her behalf, Riley joined him. You waited for me?

He tossed the paper on a nearby table and stood, towering over her by a head. I take my chauffeur duty seriously.

The soft nuances in his voice, absent from his character’s speech pattern, softened his chiseled face, making him look less intimidating than his television personae.

Emboldened by the aura of trust he projected, she met his gaze. It wasn’t necessary.

Maybe not, but cab rides during rush hour take forever and cost a fortune. The television close-ups didn’t do justice to his eyes either. They didn’t capture the gray streaks in the glacier-blue irises. I’m being nice.

The physical differences between Blythe and his alter ego Carson fascinated her. I appreciate the courtesy, but I was looking forward to submitting the receipt to Martin.

Really? A dubious smile sharpened his expression. For your sake, you better be good, or I may end up driving you back to the airport before nightfall.

Laughter bubbled inside her chest and overflowed into the lobby. Don’t worry, I won’t spoil your evening.

Martin had paid for her plane tickets and booked her in the nicest hotel she had ever stayed in. If by the end of the day the producer dismissed her, she still intended to enjoy the hospitality until tomorrow morning.

* * *

A tall wire fence surrounded the production studio, and a gate blocked the sole access to the premises. Leaning closer to the passenger side window, Riley stretched her neck. With its name written in huge indigo letters near the roof, Arctica Studio stood nine, or ten, stories high.

Blythe stopped the car at the security booth by the gate and lowered his window. Good morning, Harry. Do you have a visitor pass for Riley Kendrick?

Good morning, Mr. Huxley. The security guard handed a tag through the window. You have a good day.

Riley pinned the visitor pass handed to her onto her sweater while the actor proceeded to the back of the building.

Stopped in front of an aluminum garage door, he pressed on the key fob hanging from his rearview mirror. The door of the garage rolled up on screeching hinges and rattling chains, reminding her of a horror movie she didn’t finish watching.

He eased into the underground parking. His midsize sedan clashed with the pricier and more luxurious vehicles parked in the large, brightly lit garage. He drove past an elevator then pulled into stall sixty-three.

Martin’s office is on the fourth floor. If you don’t mind some exercise, the stairwell is closer. With his index finger, Blythe pointed toward a red door between parking stalls sixty-five and sixty-six.

I don’t mind. On an average day at the ranch, she ran between four and five kilometers. She shouldn’t break a sweat climbing four flights of stairs.

Their footsteps on the concrete stairs resonated in the windowless stairwell. They didn’t meet a soul until they exited onto the fourth floor in a busy corridor where no one paid attention to Blythe, or her. At the next junction, he veered left. She followed him into a quieter wing. On the wooden doors, names were written in white letters. She didn’t recognize any of them until they stopped in front of W.H. Martin’s name.

Blythe knocked on the closed door.

Get in here!

The thunderous greeting rang in Riley’s head. Is that Martin?

Yes. Apparently unfazed, Blythe opened the door, and with a sweep of his hand, invited her to enter. Sorry, we’re late, but Riley experienced a wardrobe malfunction.

A short man with a face as round and glossy as a ripened gooseberry and a beer belly that would have made her late grandfather envious marched toward them.

Shove the excuses, Hux. The man focused his attention on her. Who are you?

Martin must be a brilliant producer if his entourage puts up with his rude behavior. Riley Kendrick. Unsure about the protocol, she extended her hand. Nice to meet you.

The man plonked himself on the corner of his desk without touching her fingers. You wrote the script?

The lack of courtesy combined with the quizzical look Martin gave her ruffled her sensibility, causing her words to come out unbridled. I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t, would I?

Beside her, Blythe sounded like he was trying to disguise his amusement with a strangled cough.

A phony smile cracked Martin’s plum face. Hux, get out.

As he turned around, the actor leaned toward her, his elbow brushing her arm. Good luck.

The innocuous touch raised tiny goosebumps on her skin. The two little words he whispered in her ear might not have meant anything to him, but she appreciated the support.

The door closed behind the actor.

Martin motioned toward an empty chair. Take a seat, Smarty.

The nickname didn’t sound flattering. I prefer to stand.

Suit yourself. The producer abandoned his pose, walked around his desk, then slumped into his chair. Give me a short version of your script.

Considering he should already have read the entire script, she didn’t understand why he wanted a short version, but she didn’t fly from Sparrowsnest to argue with him.

Carson and Vivian are lured into a remote cabin near a lake. The antagonist injures Carson and starts a forest fire that quickly surrounds the cabin, trapping the couple inside. While facing their mortality, Vivian comes to terms with her husband’s death, and Carson deals with the guilt of not being able to save her husband as well as the secret feelings he developed for Vivian after the tragedy.

The fans are screaming for a Vivian and Luke romance. Why Vivian and Carson? The matter-of-fact question concealed Martin’s sentiments toward the potential pairing.

Luke’s many colorful girlfriends add a humorous aspect to the danger faced on each rescue mission. Though Luke’s new girlfriend only made a cameo appearance in her script, Riley enjoyed writing her. Yes, Luke and Vivian would make a nice couple, but for the survival of the show, Luke needs to remain unattached.

The producer remained impassive. But why Carson? If it were up to him, Vivian wouldn’t be part of the team.

At times, Carson may be arrogant and distant, but he’s loyal and protective of the members of his team, and that includes Vivian. Little was known of Carson’s past or motivations. Since the writers of the show kept Carson’s personal life shrouded in mystery, Riley took some liberty with his past. It could be surmised that he was once betrayed by a woman he deeply loved and built a wall around himself to protect his heart.

Martin drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, grumbling. Why do women turn everything into romance?

Must be a gender trait, she quipped.

Very funny, Smarty. The sarcastic tone wasn’t lost on her. That being said, I like it, only because that’s not what the viewers expect. Tell me about the antagonist.

To hear him say ‘I like it’ sounded like music to her ears. He’s someone from Carson’s past who holds a grudge against him, but if you prefer, I could change his background to make him a killer who saw his intended victim rescued by the team.

Someone from Carson’s past means developing his past, which could translate into making character changes in upcoming episodes. You’ll have to discuss that with Andy. Martin scribbled something onto a notepad. About that forest fire? You have the wind changing speed and direction, and the fire jumping over the canopy of the trees. How realistic are the details?

My son is a firefighter. And so was my late husband. I consulted with him and his colleagues at the fire department. They helped me set the fire scene and the rescue on the lake.

The producer arched bushy brows over his crooked nose. You talked to real experts?

That’s correct. Perfectionist by nature, Riley wanted her script to be realistic, which meant researching all the details.

Visibly surprised, and hopefully impressed, he eyed her from head to toes. Then you won’t have any problems consulting with our in-house expert, will you?

His skepticism didn’t ruffle her feathers. My pride won’t be hurt if that’s what you mean.

Good to know. The more Martin talked about the writing crew, the more Riley hoped for a chance to learn from them and work with them. You’ll report to Andy Cormack, the senior writer. Follow me.

Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he walked out of his office.

For a man of short stature, Martin took long strides. Riley had to speed-walk to keep up with him through the labyrinth of corridors and staircases. Like Blythe, he avoided the elevator, not that she minded climbing more stairs.

Andy Cormack’s office was located on the seventh floor at the end of a hallway, near an emergency exit. When the producer paused in the open doorway, she imitated him. Straight ahead were two desks, one on each side of a window. The blinds were rolled up, and the sun shined through glass streaked with fingerprints.

Martin knocked once on the doorframe. Andy?

The man sitting behind the desk on the left lifted his gaze from the document he studied.

This is Riley Kendrick, the contest winner. She’s all yours. Without further introduction, Martin pivoted on his heels and stumped away, abandoning her to her fate.

A middle-aged man with short, brown hair and a goatee, Andy rose to his feet and greeted her with a smile. Please, come in.

At the other desk, a young guy with curly, black hair groaned. Great. Another green rookie. Just what we need around here.

Ignore Paul. With a gesture of his hand, Andy dismissed the comment. He’s a good writer but somewhat of a loner.

This isn’t a book club. Over his laptop, Paul ogled her with dark, narrow eyes, reminding her of a fox ready to pounce on a chicken.

Baffled by the unfriendly welcome, Riley diverted her attention to her surroundings. On her left, a shredder and a photocopier lined up against the wall, and on her right, a cart with a coffee machine on it stood next to the open door of what appeared to be a storage room.

Please, come with me. Andy led her into the storage room. This is the Archive Room.

No bigger than the utility closet under her staircase at home, the room housed a table with a lamp and a gray lateral file cabinet.

"Anything pertinent to Wild Rescue is in here. Andy placed his hand over the cabinet. I want you to familiarize yourself with the characters’ profiles and quickly review the previous episodes. When you’re done, we’ll talk."

On his way out, he left the door slightly ajar.

Above her head, two