by Kathryn Shay
Then it was there. Flashover. A bed, an old desk, several stacks of magazines and a full bookcase burst into flames of their own volition. The fire breathed in new life. It crouched in front of him, hovered above him, attacked from each side.
In that instant, Jake knew he wasn’t getting out alive. He pivoted to Danny; a glowing timber dropped—in seemingly slow motion—onto his buddy’s head. Jake opened his mouth to warn Danny, but his breathing apparatus muffled the sound—
Jake bolted upright. His hands fisted in the light blanket that had fallen below his hips. His entire body was covered with sweat and as taut as a stretched lifeline. From the sliver of moonlight peeking in from the skylights, Jake could just make out the row of bookshelves, the oak desk that had been his father’s, the stacks of magazines he’d been cleaning out the day before. He was home, on the third floor that he’d converted into living quarters for himself. Not in a fire with Danny. He forced his hands to unclench and his shoulders to relax. In a few minutes he was able to move.
He swung his feet onto the thick carpet, rose and crossed to the windows behind the desk. Outside, the street was deserted. A quick look at the clock over the bookcases told him the reason. Four a.m. His heart still pounding, he forced himself to think.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had this dream, but he had gotten some help in analyzing it. From Reed Macauley, the department psychologist, whom Jake had gotten to know through Dylan and from his own brief stint at the academy. When Jake had recounted his dream to Reed, the psychologist had listened without speaking until Jake had finished.
“From what you tell me, this seems to come when something stressful is happening,” Reed had said then.
“Your mother’s death. Your daughter’s surgery. Ben Cordaro, who’s been like a father to you, getting hurt….”
Well, the stressful event now was Chelsea Kay Whitmore’s joining his crew. In fact, he’d see her at the fire station in about three hours.
He didn’t need this. He didn’t want it. He wanted the status quo. He wanted his life left undisturbed. Dylan had teasingly called him the Quiet Man, John Wayne’s stoic movie character, and Jake liked that just fine.
Reed had focused on that, too. “This nightmare is the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it, Jake?” he’d asked.
Jake had thought about lying, but only a fool sought help and then didn’t tell the truth. “Stuff’s happened to me.”
Reed had waited.
“I was responsible for somebody hitting bottom. Somebody I…cared about.”
The psychologist had been the one who’d said the words he’d parroted to Chelsea last week. We make our own lives. Nobody’s responsible for the actions of another.
It didn’t apply now.
“I believe that, only not in this case,” he’d told Reed.
“Tell me about it,” Reed had urged.
He hadn’t been able to then, or the second or third time he’d found himself in the psychologist’s office. But after successive bouts with his demon, insomnia, and frankly, after seeing how Reed had helped Dylan and Beth, Jake had finally been able to breach his staunchly erected defenses.
“It was my buddy, Danny. We’d been friends since high school. Played football together, best man at each other’s wedding, had a kid the same year. We got into the academy at the same time, and after a couple years, wrangled being on the same group in the RFD. It was great until I made lieutenant and Danny…” The pain had blindsided him, and he had to stop. He still felt guilty that his career aspirations had triggered a rift between him and the man who’d been closer to him than a brother.
After a moment Reed had asked, “Danny?”
“He started going downhill. First there was drinking. Then some drugs. I hauled his ass when I found out. It didn’t interfere with work for a long time. Even when it did, I let it go because Danny always had trouble with my being a lieutenant. I didn’t report his screwups for several months. By the time I did, it was too late—for him and for me.”
“What happened to him?”
“Before the brass could can him, he quit.”
“And?”
“He left town. Left his wife and son without a second thought.”
“And you.”
“Me?”
“He left you, too.”
“Yeah, after calling me every name in the book.”
“You said it was too late for you. What did you mean?”
“I, ah…Damn, this is hard to say.”
Reed had given him a grim smile. “I know.”
“Before this happened with Danny, I’d wanted to be everything in the department—lieutenant, captain, battalion chief, hell, maybe even chief some day.”
“And now?”
Jake had pushed back the sadness welling inside him.
“How I handled Danny’s downslide was a black mark on my record. I was formally reprimanded, and a letter was put in my file.”
“From what I hear, it’s got company with a lot of commendations.”
“Some.”
“So you could move up the ladder. You could take the Captaincy exam this summer.”
“I guess. But I’ve lost the drive…the interest.”
“You’ve lost your dreams,” Reed had said wistfully.
Yeah, thought Jake now, he’d lost the dreams. He turned from the window, disgusted with his ruminating, stalked to the spacious kitchen and bath alcove he’d carved from under the dormers and switched on the coffee.
Surveying the area, he thought of Ben Cordaro’s remark. The man who had been like a father to him after his own dad had died had taken one look at the haven and recognized it for what it was. Hell, Jake, you could live in this room and not come out for months. It was true. He’d spent a whole year renovating the third floor of the house he’d grown up in. His mother had lived alone for years after Jake and his sisters had left home. When Jake’s marriage had broken up, he’d taken over the mortgage, moved in with her and stayed after she died, which was five years ago. He’d modernized the other floors with help, but it was the top level he’d lovingly worked on solo.
He’d nailed in every tongue-and-groove oak board of the ceiling, cut through the roof for the two skylights, put up the Sheetrock and painted the walls a deep beige. He’d laid the expensive carpet and picked out the furniture with care. Its dark tan upholstery and brown plaid pillows accented the wall color and the warm wood. He’d chosen a sofa bed, telling himself it was for guests, but he knew in his heart he’d use it. No one else had ever slept here, and only Ben, Dylan, Francey and Jessica had been allowed up here.
When the coffee was done, he poured some into a huge mug labeled World’s Hunkiest Dad—Jessie’s sense of humor—and trekked to the leather recliner. On the low oak table was a manual he’d been reading the evening before—Sexual Harassment in the Firehouse. Damn.
Ignoring it, he twisted to gaze out one of the windows flanking the recliner at his backyard. He remembered playing there with the Cordaro kids, who’d been like brothers and a sister—
The phone shrilled in the darkness.
Firefighter instincts on alert, he bounded off the recliner to the sofa bed and scooped up the receiver on its second ring. “Scarlatta”
“Jake, it’s Barbara.”
Danny DeLuca’s wife. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry to phone so early, but Derek just got in.”
“Just got in? It’s five in the morning.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“I can’t bother you every time my son does something he shouldn’t. But…” She hesitated, then said, “He smells like pot. And he’s obviously drunk.”
“What did he say?”
Barbara hesitated again.
“Barb?”
“He asked me why I was surprised.” Her voice filled with tears. “He said he’s just like his old man.”
Jake clenched his fist. “I’ll be right over after I shower.
”
“I’m sorry to lay this on you.”
“Don’t talk like that. I’ll be there soon.”
After he hung up, he stared at the phone. Did he have time to do this? He was due at the station early, because of Chelsea Whitmore’s arrival.
God, he hoped the rest of the day would go better than how it had started out.
As he headed for the bathroom, the memory of the nightmare hovering over him like a black cloud, he somehow doubted it would.
CHAPTER TWO
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK Chelsea dragged open the heavy steel door to Quint/Midi Twelve and entered the bay. This station would be her home for who knew how long.
Home.
The word had no meaning for her. She’d never really had a home, other than the years she’d spent at her mother’s house raising her younger sister, Delaney, after her mother had died. It was one of the reasons she’d joined the fire department.
Now that’s irony.
Chelsea stood just inside the cavernous bay, and studied the two rigs, both glistening with sunlight from the high windows on the garagelike doors. The large fire engine, the Quint, did almost everything—pumped water, carried ladders and an aerial bucket and stowed backup breathing tanks and a host of other equipment. Next to it stood the Midi, a small two-person truck, which housed medical supplies, the Hurst tools for car accidents and fire-suppression equipment; it also pumped water when needed. Often the Midi went alone on medical calls.
“Good morning.” The husky baritone came from behind her. Turning, she found Jake Scarlatta standing in the doorway of the watch room. He looked bigger today, an odd impression for Chelsea, who was tall and in good shape but weighed what most women would consider too much. She was also used to working with big guys at her gym. But the breadth of Lieutenant Scarlatta’s shoulders in his light blue shirt seemed greater, his legs longer in his navy pants, and his height more imposing than it had at the hospital or when she’d seen him at Francey’s and Beth’s weddings. Maybe because he was in his element.
“Good morning.” As she crossed to him, she noticed lines of strain bracketing his mouth and eyes. He obviously hadn’t slept well. She was intimately acquainted with the signs.
“Welcome to Quint Twelve, Firefighter Whitmore.”
Ah, so that was how it was going to be.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
He nodded at the turnout gear she had draped over one arm and the canvas gym bag she clutched. “Why don’t you get your goods on the rig, then come into the watch room? I’ll brief you about today’s schedule and get you a locker for your things.”
“Where am I?” she asked, referring to her position on one of the trucks. The officer on duty assigned each firefighter a job for the entire four-day shift.
“Driver of the Midi.” She wasn’t surprised. As an EMT, she had more training than regular firefighters, who were Certified First Responders and could perform only basic medical procedures.
After placing her gear on the truck, she joined Jake in the watch room. As in many station houses, the office area was long and narrow, with glass on three sides, facing the bay. It was furnished with large gray filing cabinets, two desks, a computer that hummed in the corner and a couple of chairs. A big bulletin board, covered with memos, hung from the one wall. Also displayed prominently was a small poster that read People say our standards are too high. Given what’s at stake, that’s impossible. Everyone in the fire department knew Lieutenant Scarlatta ran a tight ship. Which was fine with her.
Jake sank onto a chair and motioned for Chelsea to sit on another. “Shouldn’t I let somebody know his relief is here?” she asked.
“I just paged Kilmer, the night Midi driver.”
She nodded.
He picked up a sheet of paper and scanned it. “I thought it’d be best to go low key today. No training or inspection. While the guys do first-day-in checks, I’ll show you around. Before that, though, I’m, ah, cooking breakfast. Because you’re here. Sort of a welcome.”
Chelsea stiffened even as she recognized how stupid it was to be irritated by such a thoughtful gesture. Since her ordeal with Billy Milligan, she’d become as easily spooked as a nervous mare. Delaney had suggested she vent her feelings in her diary—something she’d been doing since she was thirteen. It had helped, but apparently not enough.
“Something wrong with breakfast?”
“No.”
“You…bristled.”
“It’s very considerate of you to make breakfast. But I wish you’d just call it what it is.”
Under furrowed brows, his smoky gray eyes darkened to charcoal. “And what’s that?”
“Look, I don’t imagine your crew is dying to have me here. So isn’t breakfast sort of a bribe to smooth the way?” When he didn’t answer, she angled her chin and consciously kept her hands from clenching. “I’d like to know what I’m up against. I was hoping you’d be straight with me—always.”
Jake steepled his fingers and peered over them at her. She saw a muscle leap in his jaw. “I can understand why you’re cautious. But, for the record, I find your attitude unnecessarily defensive. My team will treat you with cordiality and respect. I expect the same from you.”
He was good, Chelsea thought. A real diplomat. Okay, she’d go along. Taking a deep breath, she forced her shoulders to relax. “I apologize if I’ve offended you. You’re right, I’ve reason to be cautious. But I’m sure your men will be Sunday-school polite. Breakfast would be nice.”
He watched her for a moment, then said, “Well, let’s go. Leave your bag here. I’ll get you a locker later.”
He gestured her out the door before him, and they headed to the refurbished kitchen in back. She’d been to this firehouse several times with Francey, but she hadn’t seen the remodeling. Heavenly smells of cinnamon and baked bread assailed her nostrils. The kitchen was large—about thirty by thirty—and had white appliances, except for a clunker of a stove. The cupboards on the perimeter were painted a glossy teal, and the spanking-clean tile floor would have made Martha Stewart proud. In the middle stood a beautiful trestle table of carved oak.
At which sat two men. They looked up when she and Jake entered.
“Gentlemen, this is Firefighter Chelsea Whitmore. Chelsea, meet two of your crew.” Jake sauntered over to stand behind a broad-shouldered blond man with streetwise blue eyes. The lieutenant casually placed his hands on the guy’s shoulders and kneaded them as he spoke.
“This is Peter Huff. He’ll be riding shotgun with you on the Midi today—he’s an EMT. Peter just joined our group about four months ago, but he’s subbed off and on for years.”
Huff smiled, but it was a thin one, without any warmth. “Whitmore.”
Jake moved to the second man—wholesome-looking, probably in his early thirties, with kind brown eyes. He was smaller than Huff but sported the necessary muscles to be a “smoke eater,” as firefighters called themselves. Jake ruffled the guy’s brown curly hair. “And this ugly schmuck is Mick Murphy.”
Chelsea noted Jake’s physical contact with the guys. She knew from subbing that, in some firehouses, the men were so close they were like one big family. Quint Twelve was obviously that kind of group—and she knew in her gut she’d never be part of it.
Mick shook off Jake’s hand, stood and playfully socked his lieutenant in the stomach. Then he picked his way around the table toward Chelsea and gave her a grin that reminded her of a little boy anxious to make friends. “Welcome, Chelsea. I’m glad you’re here.” He stuck out his hand.
She took it, unable to keep her eyebrows from raising in surprise. “Thanks.”
Leaning closer, he whispered conspiratorially, “My wife, Andrea, says a woman’s presence will civilize us.”
Chelsea smiled. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” As Mick turned, another firefighter entered the room.
His stocky form stiffened when he saw her. Dark Italian eyes smoldered with resentmen
t. Even his hand, which had just raked black hair out of his eyes, fisted.
It was Joey Santori.
Billy Milligan’s buddy since high school.
And Francey’s ex-fiancé. Chelsea had met him a few times when he and her friend were still a couple, and she’d been witness to several unpleasant scenes between Francey and this hothead after they’d broken up.
Men scorned were all alike.
“Joe, you’ve met Chelsea, haven’t you?” Jake’s voice was carefully casual. As close to Francey as he was, Jake had to know Chelsea was aware of Joey’s history.
Santori shrugged. “Yep.” Giving them his back and crossing to the coffeepot, Joe missed Jake’s scowl.
Jake’s prediction about his men’s cordiality had just been proved false. Chelsea caught his eye but kept her face blank. His cold expression revealed nothing of his feelings.
The air was charged. To defuse it, Jake said, “Have some coffee, Chelsea, while I put the finishing touches on breakfast.”
Huff snorted from behind the newspaper he’d picked up.
“Peter is our gourmet chef.” This came from Mick, who’d been leaning against the counter. He stepped toward Huff, circled his buddy’s neck with one arm and hugged him. “Nobody cooks better than you, Petey, baby.”
Shrugging, silent, Huff continued reading, but some of his reserve dissipated at Mick’s open affection. Ludicrously feeling excluded, Chelsea spied the coffeepot and headed to it. Mick got there first and filled a mug for her. Grateful, she sat at the table. For something to do, she picked up a section of the paper and scanned it.
“Son of a bitch.” The curse was accompanied by a loud, tinny thump.
Chelsea looked up, surprised at the normally stoic lieutenant’s flash of temper.
Huff said, “Pilot light go out again?”
