Page 75 of The Producer: Aaron

We arrive in front of a house in Burbank in a limousine that stands out among the other cars parked along the road. They are regular cars, without too many luxuries, some have seen better times, but all polished, almost as a sign of respect for the family that mourns his deceased between the walls of the blue house, the same color as all the others on the street. It’s not a luxurious neighborhood like the one I’ve gotten used to, but it has something that makes it more homely, unlike the impersonal mega villas in the Hollywood Hills.

I was surprised when Aaron asked Gaspard to take us here instead of his mother’s house for the funeral vigil. When I asked him why he told me that there would only be bigwigs talking about work but that the people who were really crying over the tragedy of that accident were here. I never knew his father’s driver, but from how Aaron hesitates in front of the entrance, I realize that the emotion of being here is stronger even than at his father’s funeral.

“Are you okay?” I grab his hand and squeeze it as I watch him stare at the house as if he can’t go any further.

He looks at me with a sad smile, the first semblance of emotion that I’ve glimpsed in days. He inhales deeply, then, one decisive step after another, we enter a house whose living room is full of people whispering with sadness in their eyes and defeat curving their shoulders.

More than one is surprised to see the imposing figure of Aaron on the doorstep, but, apart from the initial shock, he is greeted with smiles of compassion and pats on the back. It’s the first time since the accident that I’ve seen sincere pain on the faces of those around me, including Aaron. A man about Aaron’s ageapproaches and embraces him tight.

“My deepest condolences,” he whispers in a voice broken by emotion.

“Thank you. My deepest condolences to you, too,” Aaron replies, and I understand that the man must be one of the sons of the driver who drove his father’s car.

It is a gesture that brings tears to my eyes that I struggle to hold, especially when he wraps his arms around me as if I were the one who needs comfort right now.

“Condolences,” I mutter as he holds me tight and a small hiccup escapes from his throat.

“Please, come in, don’t stay at the door,” he invites us in as two children who are just over five or six, with the same raven hair as his own, cling to his legs and peek in our direction.

Aaron reaches out his hand over the baby’s head and ruffles his hair, a slight smile on his lips, the first since we entered here.

“Is your mother here? I’d love to see her.” Aaron’s voice is low, almost a whisper not to disturb the guests.

The man nods and beckons us to follow while a woman a little younger than him with chocolate hair and eyes smiles tiredly at us while grabbing the hands of the two boys and dragging them into a room that, from what I see, must be the kitchen.

“She’s sitting on the back porch. She needed a breath of air,” he explains as he opens a back door and lets us out.

There is no one out here apart from a woman in her early sixties, with her hair gathered in a low chignon and a black dress, sitting on a small sofa. She is staring at the small garden in front of her, but when we approach, her gaze rests on Aaron’s, and a sad smile paints her lips.

“Oh, Aaron, I am so sorry for your father.” The whisper is almost imperceptible, but I hear it despite the door closing behind me when the son leaves us alone with her. It’s a moment of such intimacy that I almost feel one too many, at least until Aaron beckons me to sit in an armchair next to the door, and he sits next to the woman.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Aaron’s voice comes out hoarse, charged with an emotion he struggles to contain as he embraces the woman.

I hear her sigh, then detach herself from him and put her hand on his cheek. There’s the sweetness of a mother in her gaze, and it’s the first time I’ve seen Aaron struggle to hold back his emotions.

“How is your mother?” she asks him in a loving tone.

Aaron shrugs. “Nothing a good dose of antidepressants and alcohol can’t solve.”

I am surprised to hear him confess such a thing. There is a confidence that I didn’t expect.

The woman shakes her head and studies him gently. “Stay with her. Maybe she doesn’t give it to see, but she will need you. When the house empties and everyone returns to their lives, she will need comfort,” she whispers.

Aaron smiles and nods. “Will you have someone here with you when these people leave?” There is concern in his voice.

The woman nods, and a sad smile appears as she grabs Aaron’s hands and holds them tight.

“My children don’t leave me for a moment. And then I have my grandchildren who keep me distracted. Don’t worry about me. I have so many people around. Do you have someone holding your hand when you are sad?”

Aaron looks in my direction, and I feel my cheeks go up in flame when the woman looks at me and smiles.

“Yes, I think I’ve found someone who will hold my hand,” he whispers and never stops looking at me.

My heart hammers into my chest at the speed of light, and I struggle to resist the temptation to get up and hug him.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he then asks her.

“I’ll be fine, Aaron,” she tries to reassure him.

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