by Fiona Riley
Before Sasha could even begin to process how to help, Samantha was unplugging the copier from the wall, stopping the paper hurricane in its tracks.
The admin sputtered, “Chief, I’m sorry—I don’t know what happened.”
The chief’s expression was a mix of annoyance and disbelief as he looked around the room. “What is it exactly that you were trying to do?”
“Make a copy?” The young temp swallowed loudly. “I think I pressed the wrong button.”
“I’d say that’s an understatement.” Sasha couldn’t help herself.
The chief sighed, “Okay. Clean up this mess. And I mean clean it. No ink on the floor, no streaks. I don’t even want to find a paper clip out of place, Bernard. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir—uh, Chief.” Bernard saluted but then thought better of it before nodding and scurrying out of the room.
“Rosa needs to be back ASAP.” The chief frowned and looked forlornly at Rosa’s desk.
“Who’s Rosa?” Samantha asked.
Sasha had almost forgotten she was with her. She answered, “She’s the senior administrator. Total phenom in the scheduling and organizational department. A little tight with the social funds, but—”
“That’s enough, McCray.” The chief cleared his throat. “Rosa is out on maternity leave with twin boys. Try as we might to stay on top of things, we just can’t seem to get everything done without her.”
Samantha reached down and picked up one of the copies on the floor. “A fundraiser? You’re organizing a fundraiser?”
“Trying and failing to, yes.” Chief Herrman looked depressed. “We do one major fundraiser every year to help cover some of the travel costs for training sessions, get supplies for the firehouse, put on some local education sessions, etcetera. But without Rosa to help collect funds or organize a raffle of some sort, we’re drowning. Bernard means well, but he’s just—”
“Incompetent,” Sasha said.
The chief looked like he was going to respond but Samantha interjected, “I’ll do it. Let me help. I have a knack for these kinds of things.”
“What? Really?” Sasha had never seen the chief look so hopeful. It made him seem almost…personable.
“Really.” Samantha reached out and touched the chief’s hand, melting him a little more right before Sasha’s eyes. “Tell me, Chief, how do you feel about dating auctions…?”
*****
“Why are you rubbing your shoulders like that? What happened? Something is wrong, I know it.” Valeria McCray’s eagle eye never missed a thing. Even after all these years of trying to keep things from her mother, Sasha never seemed very successful.
“It’s nothing, Mom. Just a long shift.” Sasha tried to downplay her aching shoulders. That chair lift had really done a number on her. What she wanted right now was a warm meal, a hot bath, and a fist full of Tylenol to soothe her aching everything.
Her mother regarded her with her usual suspicious glare, only grunting in reply. Then the English/Russian muttering began.
“Not tonight, Ma. Please.” Sasha didn’t think she had it in her tonight.
“You can make better money doing something less dangerous, Sasha. Your beauty is wasted under all those smoky, dusty clothes. It’s only a matter of time before something like last time happens again—”
“Enough, Mom. Enough.” Sasha was tired of hearing about the Hereford fire. There was a four-alarm fire on Hereford Street in Downtown Boston, and the roof had caved in while her squad was inside. Casey had been knocked sideways and Sasha was concussed. She’d suffered two bruised ribs and a superficial burn on her leg. It had scared her mother. And if she was being honest, it had scared her, too. But she would never verbalize that, definitely not to her mom. She didn’t need to give her mother any more ammunition. This was part of the job—the danger was part of what kept it interesting. At least, usually that was the case. “I’m plenty beautiful in my bunker gear. Not that that is even remotely important. There’s more to life than being beautiful.”
Her mother frowned and furrowed her brow. “Of course you’re still beautiful in those filthy trash bags and oversized boots, that’s not the point. The point is that you have the luxury to also be gorgeous in addition to being smart and talented. It’s a waste to be hiding that good-looking face under that ventilator thing.”
“Stop arguing with your mother. She’s right. Your face is too good-looking to hide it under that oxygen mask thingy. I can say that because you look just like me, thankfully.” Her father appeared in the doorway. His sideways grin and wink melted her heart as usual; also as usual, he was leaning against the doorframe trying to keep his balance and catch his breath. The nasal cannula providing him with the continuous oxygen he needed to survive was slightly askew, and he looked a little gray. Her heart sank—he was fading more and more each day.
Sasha forced a laugh as she walked over to adjust his oxygen line. “The only part of me that looks like you are the five random freckles on my nose.” It was true—she was the picture of her mother.
“Not true.” Her father took in a labored breath. “Those are clearly my eyes.”
“Last time I checked, they were my eyes, but I won’t argue with you because you’re—”
“Old, feeble, and your father?”
The truth in that jest hurt Sasha more than comforted her. “I was going to say senile. But those work, too.”
He laughed but it quickly became a cough and Sasha immediately regretted teasing him. She missed their easy, playful banter the most. Some days were better than others, but today was clearly not one of those days.
“Duncan, sit. Breathe through your nose. Drink this water.” Her mother was at his side with a chair and room temperature water faster than she could even process what she was saying. It was like she was anticipating this type of reaction. It occurred to her that she should check in with her mother as to how the day to day had been going. She had been mostly absent of late, working hard to put away some money to help them get out from under her father’s growing medical debt. Her mother was his full-time caregiver, and yet she still found ways to make money on the side with her seamstress work and the Russian language lessons she did online after her father went to sleep at night. Which seemed to get earlier and earlier as time went on. He just didn’t have the endurance he used to.
Her father sang “Valerie” to her mother, as he always did when he was trying to make her smile. Once upon a time he had a beautiful voice. Sasha remembered all the times she’d caught them slow dancing in the kitchen when they thought no one was looking—her father serenading her mother the entire time. The love her parents had for each other was what had inspired her to join Samantha’s matchmaking business to begin with; she wanted a love like theirs. She just hoped it would happen in her father’s lifetime so he could see it—Sasha settling down with a nice girl was her father’s only wish. And she felt like her time was running out.
Her mother smiled and stroked the side of her father’s face as his breathing became labored. He paused at the first verse and took a slow, steadying breath. Her mother kissed him then, probably to let him know she got the point, and he didn’t need to go on anymore. He smiled, the message clearly received.
Sasha took the opportunity to turn away, deciding now was the time to set the table and help her mother serve dinner. The sweet expressions of affection between them made her heart hurt these days. Her father’s now slim frame and heaving chest made him look much older than his fifty-six years. And her mother, her beautiful ballerina mother, although still statuesque and stunning, her posture still perfect and her build exquisite, but her mother was aging as well. Her father’s illness had caused the appearance of gray in her mother’s raven-dark hair, light purple circles had formed under her eyes, and her brow creased with stress wrinkles. They had all aged much too fast since that fateful night when everything changed.
“Sash, how was your shift?” Her father motioned for her mother to turn up the dial on th
e oxygen concentrator just beyond the kitchen in the den. Her mother had already been en route. The way they read each other had always amazed Sasha.
“It was good. Long. But good.” She served her mother’s pork pie to each of them, her father’s portion smaller than the others. He didn’t have much of an appetite, even with all the steroids he was on to help him breathe.
“Tell me something exciting. Old lady with a cat in a tree? Frat party pig roast disaster?” Her father’s eyes twinkled—he loved the fact that she was a firefighter. He told her often that she was his hero. The sad irony was she had become a firefighter as a result of her father’s sickness, and for no other reason. He had been her hero her whole life, but sometimes his words felt like a burden. Some hero she was—she couldn’t save him from this disease, no matter what she did for a living.
“Nothing quite that exciting, Pop.” Sasha poured more water into his glass. “Although, I did have a guest at the station today…”
“A guest. What kind of a guest? A lady guest?” Her mother was just as hell-bent on getting her to settle down as her father was.
“Actually, yes.”
“You got ’em coming to your work now, Sash? That’s my girl—beating ’em off with a stick.” Her father beamed. Her mother swatted his arm.
“Trust me—I’d be more than happy to wife up with this woman, but unfortunately, she’s already married.” That was true. Sasha had always been attracted to Samantha. Who wasn’t?
“Speed bump, not stop sign.” Her father narrowly missed her mother’s swipe this time around. “What?”
“Duncan. You’re incorrigible.” Her mother pointed her fork at him. “This is the kind of talk that has kept your daughter free and single all these years.”
“Yeah, Dad. You’re a terrible influence on me.” Sasha rolled her eyes at her mother for dramatic effect. “If only I had a better role model in my life, I might have turned out differently.”
“Unlikely,” her father replied matter-of-factly. “I knew I was destined to have a lady-killer as a daughter on your first day of kindergarten when you came home with three different girls’ favorite toys, claiming they were gifted to you by your new girlfriends. Imagine my surprise when I found out they had been given to you and you hadn’t just stolen them.”
“Oh, I did steal something…I stole their hearts.” Sasha laughed as her mother tossed a dinner roll in her direction—her father snatching it out of the air before impact.
“Exactly. Lady-killer.” He bit the roll and tossed his hands up in the shape of a goal post. “No one is going to comment on the catlike reflexes of the old man?”
“We’re just waiting to see if you pass out first, no reason wasting our zeal for nothing,” Sasha teased and her father cough-laughed. She got more than just her rogue freckles from her fair-skinned Irish father—she also got his sense of humor, his charm, and his extroverted nature. She’d learned quick wit and her ease in social situations from her father. Although her mother was no introvert by any extreme, she was much less of a presence in a room than her father used to be. He was like the sun on the darkest day—he lit up their home with his carefree belly laugh and ridiculous lame dad humor, his corny jokes never falling flat when paired with his perfect comedic timing and exaggerated gregariousness. He was the best storyteller she had ever known. She wondered how many more of his stories she had yet to hear. And how much time she’d have to hear them.
“Anyway. You were saying. Pretty lady, work visit. Go on.” Her father took a recovery breath and motioned for her to continue.
“Right. So, Samantha came by the firehouse today.”
“The matchmaker?” In addition to never missing anything, her mother never forgot a name.
“One and the same.” Sasha savored her last bite of pork pie, enjoying her father’s favorite dish.
“And?” her father asked.
“Well, she stopped by because she was in the neighborhood. She came with cookies, so she was quickly voted most popular at the station. I gave her a tour—”
“A literal one or a figurative one?” Her father wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Duncan.” When her mother chastised, her accent flared. It was something Sasha and her father had joked about for as long as she could remember. Her father chuckled—clearly now was no different.
“Literal.” Sasha scrunched her nose and giggled. “But we ran into the chief.”
“Dun, dun, dun.” Her father added the background sound of an evil villain before wheezing with laughter. “How is old Crabby Pants?”
“He’s a nice man, Duncan.” Her mother gathered the plates and began serving dessert.
“Says the woman he hit on.” He gave her mother a look of mock annoyance.
That had easily been one of the most awkward moments of Sasha’s adult life: her mother at the bar of the Fireman’s Award dinner, getting her father a cocktail, when the newly divorced chief tried to put the moves on her. Had Sasha not been up for an award later that night, she would have fled the banquet hall immediately. She was beyond grossed out—her gruff, often grouchy, and unapproachable stiff of a chief was trying to mack it to her mom. The horror. Luckily, the chief had been mostly discreet about it. Mostly. It only followed her through two shifts at the firehouse before he squashed it with extra toilet cleaning duty to anyone who breathed a word about it.
Her mother shook her head in reply and spooned the whipped cream on her father’s strawberry shortcake with extra vigor. “You were saying, Sash?”
Sasha nudged him with her elbow and clinked her glass against his conspiratorially. “Oh, nothing really. She popped by and I introduced her to the chief and she volunteered to help out with the fundraiser this year since Rosa is out.”
“When is Rosa due? I want to send a card.” Her mother walked toward the wall calendar and pointed to a few dates at the end of the month. “A guesstimate is fine.”
“Eenie, meenie, miney, Tuesday the twentieth.” She took a shot in the dark.
“Ten bucks says you’re wrong.” Her father extended his hand in wager.
“Twenty bucks says I’m right and it happens during the middle of the night.” She took his hand and countered.
“Deal.” He nodded and thumb wrestled her like they always did when they made a bet, and like always, he beat her.
“Sasha, this is the longest story ever.” Her mother crossed her arms in annoyance and motioned for her to get on with it.
“Fine, Ma. Just trample all over my buildup.” Sasha took a bite of strawberry and was reminded of her childhood—she loved this dessert as much as her father did. It was her favorite. “So anyway, Samantha offered to help the chief plan the fundraiser and suggested doing something a little different this year.”
“Which is?” Her father was on the edge of his seat.
“A dating auction. She had the idea of putting up the eligible firefighters at the company and some other local singles up for a dating auction to raise money for the charities we support and to help fund some of our training courses this year. The chief was a little hesitant at first, but the guys loved the idea. It’s going to be a whole event—an emcee, passed hors d’oeuvres, those little bidding signs, and swanky prize packages to sweeten the deal.”
“Well, I’ll be…” Her father looked like a kid in a candy store. “Tell me you’re doing it, Sash.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to, but Samantha kinda made it sound like it wasn’t negotiable. I think it’ll be fun.” Sasha shrugged. The guys at the house had been pumped from the get go, and it was a little contagious.
“And how will she ensure it’s a success? Does she even know anyone who would want to attend this sort of thing?” Her mother supplied her usual amount of realism and doubt.
“Samantha assured the chief she had plenty of wealthy clients that were looking for a man, or woman, in uniform. She said she could fill the audience with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back. There’s a little photo shoot sch
eduled next shift for all the guys and girls participating—she’s having a professional photographer take action shots to put in the auction catalog to enhance the bids. We have to write little blurbs about ourselves. Actual blurbs. Can you imagine?” The more she talked about it, the more excited she got—this was going to be a blast.
Her father wolf whistled as best he could with the oxygen on. “Any chance that girl from the wedding will be in the crowd? You know, the sexy blonde with the hot lips?”
“Dad,” she whined and immediately regretted telling her father about the kiss she’d shared with Abby the night of the wedding. She regretted it almost as much as she regretted not getting Abby’s phone number—by the time she had gotten back from the fur coat debacle, Abby and her friend Edie were long gone. She had been kicking herself ever since.
“Those were your words, not mine.” He scooped up the last bit of whipped cream and finished it off with a happy sigh.
“Truth.” There was no point in denying it. That kiss was something she’d revisited often in the weeks since that night—there was just something about Abby and those lips. She would be over the moon if she had a chance to meet up with her again. Samantha clearly knew her if she was at the wedding. Why hadn’t she thought to ask Samantha to put her in touch with Abby before? “Here’s hoping she makes an appearance. I’ll work on my single lady strut just in case. Wanna help me pick a song to walk out to?”
“Obviously.” Her father nodded and gave her a high five before coughing briefly.
“Best. Wingman. Ever.” She smiled at his enthusiasm even as his frailty kicked her in the bottom of her stomach. She wondered how many more of these moments she would have with him. As she reached for her phone to pull up potential entrance music options, she decided to live in the moment and let those feelings haunt her another day. After all, there was important work to be done.
